The Other Side of Dance
by Ludi
Summary: You're a man in love with a woman, playing a game with a man who could have you both dead. How do you cope? Chapters 4-7 of Arrow of Time told from Gambit's POV. HoC AU. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Characters belong to Marvel. I think.

 **Warning:** Sex, language.

 **A/N:** _The Other Side of Dance_ is chapters 4-7 of _Arrow of Time_ told entirely from Gambit's POV. Throughout the original chapters Gambit's intentions are pretty much shielded, both from Rogue and from the reader, and in this short story I wanted to capture something of the conflict he is going through on the inside, as well as give voice to his motivations and his true feelings for Rogue. If I have to be honest - I prefer writing from Gambit's perspective. Rogue is great and has a 'pure', righteous, determined voice; but Gambit is muddier, murkier, more conflicted, and he makes for an interesting narrator. I hope you all enjoy this exploration of his character as much as I did writing it. And once again, a huge thank you to **jpraner** for her stellar beta-reading and for 'getting' my characters more than I do. ;) Read her, guys. She's good. ;)

This is the first in several vignettes to be set in the HoC universe.

* * *

 **The Other Side of Dance**

 **. I .**

There were two lists.

One on the left, one on the right, both shining up at him in the faint glow from the tablet screen, black on white and dancing, reflected, on the surface of his eyes.

On the left was a roll of names, the names of all the many mutants incarcerated throughout the New York state area. And on the right were the names of all those that had once been in the list on the left, but were now in a room a couple of floors below and several rooms across.

The right hand list was considerably shorter than the left; but it was long enough, and he felt an odd pride in the vertical column of names because they were the culmination of several years' worth of work, and he was proud of it in the way a man would take pride in his achievements, however much he happened to despise his choice of career.

A flick of a forefinger, and the left hand list went scrolling downward in a monochrome blur. He stopped it when it got to the letters highlighted in a garish neon yellow. KAPOOR, RASHIDA, it read. CODENAME: HAVEN.

He knew the name, but not the face that belonged to it.

He was fairly sure she'd never been an X-Man… that he'd heard her name only in the context of someone who had been brought forward in one of Professor Xavier's very few recruitment drives. She'd never signed up. But Xavier had kept her name on file, just in case. He'd read it one day on the Cerebro database, during one of his many illicit data-mining sessions at the mansion.

"Rashida Kapoor, Rashida Kapoor," he muttered to himself, just to keep her name fresh in his mind. He set the tablet carefully down on the desk and swivelled round to his laptop, tapped on one of the many icons cluttering his desktop.

CEREBRO DATABASE, read the flashy loading screen that opened up.

It was one of the first things he'd stolen from the X-Men, and it had turned out to be one of the best investments he'd ever made in his life. He'd installed the database onto every new system he possessed. In fact, he was pretty much never without it. The endless list of names seemed to follow him wherever he went, and even in the night they haunted his dreams. He knew the names of each and every one he had come into contact with. He knew the names of every one he had sold.

The database loaded.

KAPOOR, RASHIDA, he typed in.

And there she was. His next target, the next name on his hit list.

A sullen-faced Indian woman looked out at him from a decade-old photo.

Forty-two years old; nationality, Indian; height, 5'5"; weight, 153 lbs; religion, Hindi; marital status, widowed.

He did a quick mental calculation in his head, adding 10 years to her age, trying to imagine what she might look like now, aged and scarred and probably emaciated. However he pictured her, it wasn't attractive.

He took in a breath – the sigh of a man already weary of the monotonous task that lay before him. He settled himself in the swivel chair at his desk, sat at the laptop and stared at the sullen face wishing he didn't have to see it again.

"C'mon, LeBeau," he murmured to himself. "Time t' do your homework."

Because going after a target without knowing anything about them would be the kind of elementary mistake even a novice wouldn't make. He just wished that this research didn't have to make his marks so damn _human_.

Remy LeBeau gave another sigh, ran a hand through his still-damp auburn hair, feeling the tiredness begin to pulse behind his eyes. The shower that morning had taken the edge off of his hangover, but not that much; and now that he was sitting here doing this, facing another reason to drown his guilt in a pint of beer, he was beginning to feel it again. Instinctively he reached for the half empty pack of cigarettes hiding under the general mass of papers at his right-hand-side; and almost as instinctively, he drew his hand back. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and rubbed his face with both palms. _Damn_ , he thought, and he stared at Rashida Kapoor's face through the gaps between his fingers, her lips thin and her gaze accusatory.

 _Don't be like dat, chere_ , he thought to himself. _Dis ain't my fault_.

But at least half of it was.

And he didn't even bother hiding it from himself anymore.

Self-justification had always been the weak-link in his chain of logic and so he'd dispensed with it altogether. _Don't think. Just do._

And that's why he leaned forward, put his mind to the task in hand, and finally scrolled down to read the rest of her file.

His cell phone buzzed under the sheaf of printouts he'd slapped on his desk before stepping into the shower this morning, the vibration growling at him to take notice.

"Go 'way," he muttered, hitting the 'Page Dn' key and scrolling down to the next paragraph.

He had an inkling it might be the girl he'd met at the bar last night. He'd been drunk then, but he had a feeling he'd given her his number at some point between his fourth drink and making out with her in the alley.

 _Fuckin' idiot_ , he mentally scolded himself.

As a rule he never gave a girl his number. The fact that he had told him he was getting more desperate than he cared to admit. It didn't matter that he'd been drunk when he'd given it away. He didn't give his number to girls. Period. They gave theirs to him. If he needed a lay, he called _them_. And if he didn't, well… …

But he knew what this was all about, really.

He'd wanted _her_ to call _him_ so that he didn't have to open up the invitation and end up feeling guilty because _he'd_ be the one to initiate sex with her and… …

He snorted irritably to himself.

Guilty? Why should he feel guilty?

He was a single man who had his urges and who hadn't had sex in… well. Weeks now.

Remy quickly slid his hand under the small pile of printouts and retrieved his phone.

It wasn't some girl whose name he couldn't even remember.

It was Rogue.

He almost fell out of his chair when he saw her name right there on the screen. For a long moment he couldn't even read the short message lined out in small type beneath. He didn't often get that feeling, not these days. The feeling of being slammed in the gut with a baseball, of having all the wind taken out of him, the headrush of adrenaline, that involuntary quickening of the heart. But he felt it then.

He felt it when he saw her name.

 _Rogue._

His heart was still thumping hard when he opened up the message. He read it again and again like a foolish pup reading his first love letter.

 _Remy need 2 talk,_ was all it said. _Black womb_.

Two short sentences, short and straight and to the point.

So carefully crafted, so meticulously constructed that he felt sure she had spent an age figuring out exactly how to phrase it.

The words danced before his eyes, performing a macabre waltz in his head.

 _Black womb_.

Okay. So she knew about the Black Womb project. No big deal. He'd already told her _something_ about it, months ago. But _something_ had obviously happened, for her to suddenly text him like this. She'd obviously found _something_ out. Just _how much_ he wasn't ready or willing to speculate on. Whatever it was, it was the reason she wanted to talk.

His teeth pulled at his lower lip. Hm. How to play this? His mind skimmed over a hundred possible outcomes in a few short seconds. He tried not to think about what she knew, or what she _thought_ she knew. If he was going to worry about anything, it was how exactly he was going to manipulate the initiative she had taken into a scenario he could actually work. And as usual, a plan was beginning to form in his mind mere seconds into the opening scene.

A smile began to play across Remy LeBeau's lips.

He'd waited months for this opening. Months and months. And now the game… it had begun.

Finally.

He slipped the phone into the back pocket of his jeans, snapped shut his laptop.

"Sorry, Rashida," he murmured without a trace of regret. "Looks like I got a better offer t'night."

He stood and crossed the room, opened the door and flicked the light switch out.

"Don't wait up," he added to the machine sleeping on his desk, and with a grin he turned and left.

-oOo-

 _Click, clack, click, clack_.

Clarity's fingers danced across the keyboard in an almost languorous sweep. His movements were poetic, but the noise they made was all staccato.

He didn't look up when Remy walked in, but then he rarely did. Especially not these days, when the two had barely exchanged two words at all.

Remy had learned to live with the not being friends anymore. He knew he was to blame for it, and because he was to blame for it, there was no point in being sentimental about the whole thing. He still felt the sting the loss of that friendship caused him; but he didn't dwell on it. He didn't like making mistakes, but he was the kind of man that admitted them readily when he made them.

"Clarity," he greeted the man from the doorway, when the little hunched figure at the computer screens made no sign of halting his mechanical dance.

"Rems."

The word was short and stiff and cold. The small, gnarled black man named Clarity didn't even look over as he said it. It was, nevertheless, greeting enough for Remy to take a step forward. He didn't bother with niceties; he knew they weren't welcome anymore.

"Got a job for you," he said instead, and the man at the monitors nodded ruefully.

"Yeah. Figured you would." He continued _clack, clack, clacking_ at his keyboard. "Well? Whaddaya want?"

Remy took it as an invitation to approach his former friend. He did so with all the insouciance born in him, slipping the phone out of his back pocket as he did so.

"Gotta text," he explained, laying the phone on the small desk next to Clarity's arm. "I need you to get a location on it."

He'd made sure the text was open and on-screen as he'd laid it on the table. Clarity glanced at it, never once halting in the elegant sweep of his fingers, read the few short words with disinterest. Then he did a double-take. The _clack, clack, clacking_ stopped. He turned his head and looked fully at the message, his fingers poised over the keys as if frozen in time.

When he looked up at Remy his face had gone very still.

Remy read the accusation in his eyes with all the calm of a man who had long been expecting it.

"Essex'll want a position on her," he spoke dispassionately. "Find out where dis was sent from, and report de coordinates to him. We get a lock on her, we can reel her in."

Clarity's expression darkened. He stared at Remy with the steely glare of someone who disagreed wholeheartedly but didn't dare mutiny. After a long moment during which Remy felt the full force of his old friend's disapproval, Clarity picked up the phone and, tight-lipped, jabbed a USB cable that was already linked to one of his computers into its side. One of the monitors nearest to him flickered into life, code spilling down its screen as the program ran its trace.

"T'anks," was all Remy said, and he turned to go.

When he got to the door, that was when Clarity chose to speak to him.

"You're a shit, you know that Rems?" he spat at him in barely disguised disgust.

 _Sticks and stones_.

Remy walked out the door and didn't look back.

-oOo-

Sinister was in his lab, dissecting something that was still alive.

It was hairless and pink and human-sized.

It was still twitching there on the table as Sinister's flunkies wheeled his tools away and the good doctor removed the latex gloves from his lily-white hands with a sharp _snap, snap_.

"You say she contacted you?" Essex asked him in that soft voice that was all at once mellifluous and dangerous at the same time, pulling the surgical mask from his face. Remy stood and nodded, not looking at the half-dead thing on the table as it, too, was wheeled out.

"By text," he explained. "She wanted to talk."

"Hm." Essex's expression was amused, interested. "And did you reply to her?" he asked, moving to a nearby sink and washing his hands in the usual manner. The scent of chemicals wafted round Remy in a short burst of gag-inducing pungency.

"Of course not," he replied matter-of-factly. "I gave de phone to Clarity. He's workin' on a trace as we speak."

"Good." Essex's tone was brusque, efficient; he wiped his hands on a towel and threw it into a nearby bio-waste can. "It means we can finally put our plan into action. I admit, I had thought she would contact you sooner. I was not expecting to have to wait this long for my little prize. But at last, our best laid plans will come to fruition."

Remy said nothing. There was rarely any point in adding commentary to Sinister's self-congratulatory monologues.

"How long will it be before we get a location?" Essex asked, turning away and removing his bloodied apron. Remy shrugged.

"He didn't say. But he works fast. So soon, I guess."

Essex nodded absently.

"And he will report the necessary details to me?"

"Already told him to."

"Excellent." The small smile Sinister passed him was appreciative. "Then we put our plan into action tomorrow, at the earliest opportunity." He paused, looked fully at Remy with narrowed eyes, said; "Are you sure—"

"Yes," Remy answered, not even waiting for the question to be finished. And Essex's smile widened into something that was altogether malicious.

"Good. One does want to be _certain_ , you see. You do understand that, don't you, my son?"

-oOo-

Rashida Kapoor was firmly on hold.

Remy made no detours, heading straight back to his room for his trench and his bike keys. Wallet, cigs, cards. Check. All he needed now was his phone back.

He stepped back down to the basement level, finding Clarity in much the same attitude as he had before. There was a hard look on the man's face as he heard Remy enter his little domain and approach him, still sitting at the wall of monitors.

"Didja get it?" he asked.

Clarity swivelled in his chair, that same mutinous disdain for everything Remy appeared to stand for apparent on his face. He slapped the phone back into Remy's palm harder than was necessary, turning only to bring up a nearby screen with a satellite map of New York City centred on it. A beacon was flashing in an area of town he didn't recognise.

"Traced the message to here," Clarity explained belligerently, tapping the beacon with a finger. Remy leaned in to take a closer look.

"Where's dis again?" he asked, squinting at the screen and trying to familiarise himself with the surroundings.

"Old subway station that was converted into a bunker during the Sentinel wars," Clarity returned. He pressed a button, zooming out then zooming back in, giving Remy a better feel of the area. Remy studied what he was shown quickly, carefully.

"Ah, okay," he nodded to himself after a moment. "I got my bearings now." He tilted his head slightly, looked at the map from another angle. "Where's de nearest landmark?" he queried in a lighter tone of voice. Clarity looked at him sharply, his brow furrowing in sudden confusion.

"The docks," he replied presently. "Why?"

Remy didn't answer. He figured Clarity was smart enough to figure it out by himself.

"Can you get de coordinates?"

The other man stared a while, watching as Remy opened up Rogue's message on his phone, finally ready to punch in a reply, his thumb poised over the virtual keypad.

"You're arrangin' a meet?" Clarity spoke incredulously, and Remy glared at him over the top of his phone.

"What does it look like? Get me those coordinates."

The peremptory tone finally got Clarity to do as he was told, but there was still doubt in his expression. He read out the coordinates of the pier almost hesitantly, and Remy copied them down faithfully into the reply box, digit by precious digit.

When Clarity's voice fell silent, he tapped SEND.

He slipped the phone back into his trench pocket and saw that his erstwhile friend was looking up at him with a countenance that had now lost all of its previous hostility.

"You goin' to warn her?" he quizzed, and there was a strain of hope – no, relief – in his voice.

"I dunno yet," Remy mused. "You t'ink I could get away wit' it wit'out Essex noticin'? He's already suspicious of me, _mon ami_. He's waitin' for me to slip up. I can't."

The words made Clarity's brow crumple again; he shook his head slowly, disdainfully.

"I get it." And his tone was back to cold once more. "Y'wanna taste the goods again before they get passed on. Shit, Rems," he exclaimed indignantly. "You cold, man. Real cold. It ain't what she deserves. And here I was thinkin' you _cared_ about her."

Remy's smile was small, taut.

"If Rogue is de only t'ing to get me what I want from Essex," he answered evenly, "den he'll get her. All I'm doin' is smoothin' a path of least resistance, _mon ami_. Essex is all rearin' and ready to get her by brute force. I'm just showin' him dat force ain't needed."

He turned, ready to leave; stopping only when he heard Clarity say; "I don't get you, man. What could Essex _possibly_ have to give you that's better than _her_?"

And Remy didn't answer, couldn't answer.

He couldn't risk everything he'd planned, even to someone who was a potential ally in this whole sorry mess. The only person he could trust with the truth was himself. So he walked out the door and left Clarity hating him, thinking to himself not without a hint of irony that _de answer's real simple, mon ami. What could Essex possibly have t' give me dat's better den Rogue?_

And a bitter smile twisted his lips as he thought of the answer.

 _Her life._

 _-_ oOo-

 _Continued in chapter 2._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Characters belong to Marvel. I think.

 **Warning:** Sex, language.

 **A/N:** Thanks so much to my reviewers, nice to see so many following over from the HoC trilogy! And **jpraner** , I have to say, you might be in luck. Just when I think I'm done with Rogue and Gambit, they come and smack me over the head with a plot bunny again. So I guess you can say that more Romy stories will be coming out the woodwork... :o ;)

This chapter follows much more closely the narrative of chapter 5, _Fence_ , of AoT, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. :)

-Ludi x

* * *

 **The Other Side of Dance**

 **. II .**

It was knocking on curfew, and the streets were already deserted. The pier was the same, only the waters it rested upon giving any real sense of life and movement.

Remy lurked in the shadows and brooded.

His gut was churning like he was under a death sentence and he didn't like it.

Correction.

He _did_ like it, or he liked what it entailed.

Kind of. Maybe.

Okay.

Correction #2.

His gut was churning like a kid's on Christmas morning, and he wanted into that present like another Christmas was never gonna come again.

A burst of cold wind doused him in its chill breath, stifling somewhat the heated fervour of his thoughts.

Remy shivered involuntarily and turned his collar up against the wind, driving out some of its edge. He pressed his back against the wall and let it hold him for a moment.

 _Eleven months_.

Eleven months without her voice and her face and her smell and her body.

All of it wrapped up carefully and stowed away in some secret part of him.

All of it pushing at the surface, on the verge of bursting out.

Months of self-denial heaving away at the dam he'd erected to keep it all in.

It was about to break. It was about to crumble all away and whatever it released was going to consume him and burn him all to ash. Like his powers, under his skin, threatening to get out, threatening to unleash its unholy fire on him and leave nothing but a smoking husk behind.

He closed his eyes, concentrated on the soft lapping of the water on the shore's edge. It did little to quell the fire in his guts, but its relentlessness was steadying… calming. He let it guide him for a few long moments; he let it lead the tortured meandering of his thoughts until they had dwindled into nothing more than persistent whispers.

He slid back into position. Watching. Waiting. Patient as a predator stalking its prey.

The purr of a motorbike nearby made him snap to attention. A moment or two later, and she was there.

He watched her walk into view, looking about her with a casualness that hid both expectation and wariness, and she stopped on the gangway, turned 360 degrees in a slow arc, scanning the area, not registering his conveniently hidden little spot. She stood a moment, teeth tugging at her lower lip, thinking she was alone. The wind blew again and she absent-mindedly caught the front of her leather jacket closer to her breast. Boots, black bodysuit. She'd come here prepared for trouble of some sort. She was scoping for it now. Still expecting another betrayal from him.

He figured he'd have to oblige her, at least one more time.

And he didn't like that either.

She turned, now relaxed a little, and walked to the railings opposite. She leaned on it with her elbows and looked at the quietly shifting waters. The breeze played lightly with her cinnamon hair. It caressed her in a way he couldn't.

At least not yet.

Remy realised he'd been holding in a breath and he released it in a torrent. She exuded such an uncomplicated beauty he found himself captivated by it. She harpooned him with the minimum of effort, reeled him in without knowing it. She plucked him up and screwed him tight and tossed him away. She made a mockery of all the careful controls he'd set in place to ward off all the shit that threatened to make him lose it.

She was the only thing. The only thing that took it all away.

The only thing that put it all back together again.

He stepped out towards her, breathing consciously, stopping only under the light of the nearest street lamp. She was still there, leaning out over the waters, wreathed in her thoughts and completely unaware of his presence. He figured he could walk right up behind her without her noticing, announcing himself only with the lightest of kisses inside the crook of her shoulder. He'd done it often enough. He allowed himself to make a short excursion into half-buried memories, the feel of her skin on his lips, the way she would start against him as she realised he was there, the twisting of her body into his arms, the taste of her mouth on his and… …

 _Not yet_ , he told himself softly. _Not yet. Wait it out, LeBeau. Wait it out._

And he took a mental step away from her.

" _Chere_ ," he said instead, conscious of the low gravel in his tone, of how his intended lightness had come out all wrong. She didn't start. Didn't jerk with surprise. She may have been unaware of his presence, but somehow she had _felt_ him there, right behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and looked him full in the eyes. Eyes to strike a man down at a hundred paces. Sad, smoky green and utterly devastating. Nothing showed in her face, but he sensed it. The quickening of her pulse, the shallowness of her breath. The same things he was feeling standing right there so close to her.

"Remy," she greeted him, with all the lightness he had been intending but hadn't been able to manage. "Long time no see."

 _Remy_.

Her voice like a siren's call.

How could he resist?

It was invitation enough, at any rate, for him to close the distance between them. He stepped up beside her at the railings, leaned out towards the sea just as she did. He was hyper aware of the control he had over his movements, of the space between them. It wasn't much. Her hair brushed against his shoulder in the breeze. He was sure he could feel it through the layers of viscose and leather.

His eyes picked out the silhouette of a lone seagull flying home to roost.

 _Curfew over, Remy. No kiddies allowed._

He looked down at his hands, held loosely together, and thought how nervous their attitude seemed.

The two of them stood together, side by side, in silence, for what seemed like an age.

And he felt, acutely, how dangerous that silence was. How much closer its trusting comfort brought them together, in a way words never could.

"Got your message," he spoke at last, his voice still low and gravelly, trying to dispel the comforting familiarity that their silence entailed. He reached into his pocket absent-mindedly, drew out a card, played it lightly between his fingers, letting it guide the cadence of his meaningless conversation. "Was surprised to hear from you, _chere_ ," he continued softly. "After all dis time…"

Can you steel yourself against a voice?

He tried it then, with her.

It didn't work.

"Ah needed to talk," she said, and her tone was just as soft as his. "Ah know about the risks… Yah don't need to tell me. But this… it had to be in person."

She wanted him curious. He could read _that_ , clearly enough. And so he did what he always did in the face of such information. He feigned indifference.

"What is it?" he asked, wondering, not for the first time, how much of this was really _business_ and how much was… well, _something else_.

"Ah followed your trail," she answered, her voice taking on a more defiant tone. "To Alamogordo. Ah met _her_ there. Amanda Mueller."

Remy couldn't prevent his lips from tightening. It wasn't anything to do with denial. It was simply the fact that she had gone messing in what he considered his own private business. It didn't matter how much Amanda Mueller had told her about who and _what_ he was. It was the fact that she hadn't left well enough alone. Her having access to his thoughts was bad enough.

"And what led you dere?" he asked her quietly, trying not to let anything slip.

"You did. Destiny too." She shivered, tucked a loose lock of white hair behind her ear. He eyed the movement and felt himself longing to mirror it, gently, tenderly. He flipped the card between his fingers instead as she continued. "Ah'd been havin' dreams about the Black Womb facility for months. Took me a while to figure out what it was though…"

He frowned. The name _Destiny_ wasn't one he particularly cared to hear.

"Destiny?" he spoke; and then his brow cleared. "Oh. Yeah. I almost forgot. You absorbed her." The card paused between his fingers. "She been givin' you trouble, _chere_?"

She nodded.

"Sometimes. Sometimes she makes me see things, things that could happen in the future. Usually they don't make a whole lotta sense. But when Ah ask _you_ about it…" she trailed off, realising that he probably wouldn't like what she had intended to say next.

"You mean you went and talked to the 'me' in your head? The one you stole?" he questioned bitterly, still not looking at her.

"Ah had t' know the truth," she said. "Ah'm sorry you don't like it, but trust's a two-way street, sugah. Ah'm fairly sure you've hidden more than a few truths from me too."

He said nothing. What was the point in denying what was patently true?

"Why didn't you tell me, Remy?" she finally asked him exactly the word he had been expecting her to ask. _Why_. "That you knew Ah was a part of the Black Womb project too?"

His smile was wry, resigned.

"So dat was what she told you, huh?" If this was all she wanted to talk about, then things probably weren't going to be so bad… "Truth is, Rogue," he continued matter-of-factly, "I didn't know how t' tell you. You'd been hurt enough already, been put through enough shit to be told dat de better part of your life's been a coldly calculated lie."

She gave a humourless laugh.

"Ah dunno," she muttered. "Livin' with Irene and Mystique for half your life, you kinda get used to it." She turned to him. "How 'bout you, Remy? How do you deal with it?"

"By bein' who I am, _chere,_ " he answered simply, looking down at the card that was now standing, still and upright, between his fingers. He saw it was the Ace of Spades. "Not'ing else makes any sense." He stood up straight and flipped the card back into the pouch at his belt, finally turning to her as he did so. "How much did she tell you?" he asked her, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice now. He _had_ to know. "De Black Womb, I mean?"

"Everythin'," she answered, and he suppressed an involuntary moment of dread that she couldn't see, because if it was _everything_ then it was _something_ he didn't think he was ready to deal with right now, not if she knew about it. It was only as she continued that that dread slowly dissipated; and he watched her, watched her mouth as she spoke, as she told him what she _thought_ she knew.

Yes, he was born at the Black Womb facility. Yes, he was supposed to be Essex's crowning achievement. Yes, Essex had a piece of his brain, held the very part of him that granted him access to his own Omega level powers.

But there were still things she didn't know.

Like what his true relationship was to both Sinister and Amanda Mueller.

Like the fact that that small sample of his brain was the one thing that he figured could keep her alive.

It wasn't just relief that flooded him as he watched her mouth and realised that she didn't know half of what the _real_ truth was. There was also a kind of snake worming its way under his skin as he thought about how he wanted that mouth on him something vicious.

"Why didn't you tell me, Remy?" she asked him earnestly, waking him from his reverie. "Why didn't you just tell me the truth?"

She gazed up at him with mettle in her eyes, expecting an answer, a _good_ one. And he _had_ a good one. He just couldn't explain it to her.

"Tellin' de truth ain't easy, _chere_ ," he replied quietly, turning back to the water churning down beneath them. "Especially when it comes t' myself." He looked across at her again. "Is dat all y'came t' tell me, Rogue?"

She bit her lip and looked back to the river. He'd prodded her another inch towards getting mad at him; but it was safer than her pitying him, comforting him, being disgusted at him.

"Irene told me that her and Raven planned to take you outta there just like they did with me," she finally said, her tone restrained, changing tack, trying to come at him from another angle, one he didn't have figured yet. "They wanted to raise you, keep you safe. Irene knew how important you would be. But Amanda went crazy, started tearin' up the facility… By that time Sinister already had you; they managed to get me outta there and back to Caldecott, but you…"

"But I ended up wit' de Thieves Guild, and screwed up their grand plan for de future." He laughed with just a strain of irony. "I'm glad."

"Are yah?" she asked him with a raised eyebrow.

" _Oui_. Can you imagine what kinda person I woulda turned out to be if Irene and Mystique had raised me? Not to mention if _we'd_ been raised together? As brother and sister?" His grin widened. "Always thought de X-Men were kinda incestuous, but dis woulda given de concept a whole new meanin'…"

"Don't joke about it," she remonstrated with him coldly. "Maybe Ah wouldn't have liked your sorry ass so much if you _weren't_ brought up by the Thieves Guild."

"So 'like' is what you call it, huh?" He was amused. "But maybe you right, _p'tit_. Whatever shit de Guilds threw at me, dey were still one helluva family. Not sure Irene and Mystique woulda been… Tryin' to fit me into dis crazy future of theirs…"

" _Who_ brought you up ain't the point, Remy," she told him soberly. "The point is where you ended up. Where you are now, and where you will be in the future." She looked down at her hands; the breeze touched them again, this time lighter, less chill. "Y'know what Ah think?" she half-whispered. "Ah think it was _always_ Irene's intention that we be pushed together. She tried to make it happen, from the very moment we were both born… but we ended up on different paths. For a little while." She looked up at him again, into his eyes, said: "The more Ah think about it, the more Ah believe that it was those different paths that brought us together… Maybe how Irene wanted to play things wasn't the way things were _supposed_ to be… Maybe Fate worked against her."

"You're assumin' dat dis Fate crock is for real, _chere_ ," he returned seriously. The breeze had blown that white lock of hair into her face again and he gave in. He reached out absently, tucking it back behind her ear. Her skin was a pinpoint of warmth on his fingertip, the only source of physical connection between them. She shook her head gently, making no protest at his touch.

"But it _is_ real," she insisted quietly.

"How do you _know_?" he quizzed her.

"Because Ah have her powers now, Remy, don't I. Because Ah can see too."

He looked at her, feeling the frown crease his face, staring at his fingers, still tucked snugly behind her ear.

"I'm not sure I like dat," he muttered reflectively.

"Me neither," she confessed.

And he was left with nothing more than working on the assumption – the _hope_ – that she would never see anything in the future to give away any of this _shit_ he had planned.

"So tell me somet'ing, _chere_ ," he queried again, brushing aside any of the negative possibilities currently springing to his mind. "Why would Destiny want us together? Mystique sure as hell didn't." And he let a grin touch his face at that.

"Ah don't know. Ah don't think Irene ever discussed it with Raven, to be honest."

"Hm." He nodded absent-mindedly, remembering an encounter he'd once had with Irene many, many months ago. "When I was at de Brotherhood's place, after what happened wit' Rachel down at de Hound Pens, Irene knew I was gonna take you wit' me."

She seemed surprised at the revelation.

"She knew?"

" _Oui_. She _wanted_ me t' take you. She never said so, but I got de feelin'…" He paused. It was only then that he realised he was still touching her, his fingers still nestled protectively behind her ear. He dropped his hand, slipped it back into his pocket. "I asked her once _what_ it was she was playin' dis whole Fate t'ing for. She said 'for everythin'. Dat was about as much as I got outta her." His glance became penetrating. "Why don't _you_ ask her? She's in your head after all."

"She don't play nice," she answered ironically, and he grimaced.

"Like dat, huh? Hope she don't give you no grief, _chere_."

"No. Not anymore." She looked away, and he wondered just how much of those words were true.

"Looks like her plans failed though," he spoke up sarcastically. "It's not like we're together anymore, is it?"

He couldn't help it. He wanted a roundabout way to get her to tell him just how she felt about the silent treatment he'd laid on her. It was childish, but he needed to know how mad she was at him, how much she still wanted him. He needed that boost to his ego.

And he saw it all right there, right in the sidelong glance she sent him from the corner of her eyes.

"So _that's_ what the past few months of silence have meant, Cajun?" Her lips came together in a sulky pout, endlessly attractive and yet undeniably dangerous. "Ah don't _recall_ us ever havin' broken up…"

"Technically, I don't remember us ever havin' got _together_ …"

"So the whole 'we take things day by day, see where it leads us' thing… That was just somethin' Ah dreamt up, was it? Or was it just part of the _game_ , Remy?"

And there he had it. Everything he needed to know and more. All he'd needed was to crack the shell and she'd opened the rest up for him. He fed greedily on the nectar inside. He fed gloriously, triumphantly, on the fact that she wanted him enough to be hurt, crestfallen, indignant in the face of his half-lies.

"I meant exactly what I said," he answered with feigned insouciance. "Day by day, _chere_. Came a day when I left. Didn't know you were still holdin' out for somet'ing."

She looked up at him sharply, hurt, fury in her eyes.

"The way we parted… It wasn't exactly like we were never gonna see each other again. Ah thought…"

He'd pushed it too far. He saw he'd tipped her over the edge from _indignation_ and into _hurt_. The truth was, he'd been comforting himself the past few months with the fact that their parting had been ambiguous enough to have been construed as a break up, albeit a temporary one. He'd made no promises, and she'd asked for none. On the other hand, he hadn't called her when he'd said he would. He hadn't come back when he'd failed to achieve the objectives he'd set out to complete. He'd put distance between them without any explanation, trusting to the fact that she'd _let_ him, that some part of her would understand. At the very least, he expected her to figure he needed to be free again, that he couldn't take the heat that came with their relationship.

And that was _half_ true, but it wasn't _the_ truth, and though he was selfish enough to want her love without giving even an inkling of it back in return, he knew he'd overstepped the mark and wounded her, and he knew he didn't like it.

"I'm sorry," he spoke up after a long moment of silence, and he meant it. He needed to make at least _some_ honest concession. "Truth is, I didn't have de guts to call it a day on us."

The breath she let out was pent-up, still half-angry. It took a moment more for it to bleed all out of her.

"Me neither," she admitted softly. Calm fell; her eyes locked onto his. "Did yah _want_ to?"

" _Non_ ," he answered honestly.

And that was bigger than any concession he had considered giving her.

"Neither did Ah," she said.

They gazed at one another, silent, as the implications of their words sank in.

So this was how it was. Cards on the table. Feelings unchanged. Everything still on offer. Everything still fair game. He couldn't stand it.

"C'mon," he spoke, finally throwing caution to the wind and drawing an arm about her shoulders. "Let's walk a bit."

So they did. They walked down the pier together, Remy with his mind scrabbling in a desperate race with his emotions. One would gain, only for the other to quickly catch up. He was dangerously on the edge of skipping this part of the plan altogether and just getting to the prize at the end.

 _Not de prize_ , he reminded himself sternly. _Just de nice li'l interlude b'fore de real game begins and de stakes really get high._

He was the one, after all, who was entirely in control here. He felt that palpably. He had the ability to shift the goalposts if he wanted to. He almost felt ashamed that he had that power over her. He decided, on balance, that it'd be a mistake to abuse it.

"Be honest wit' me, Rogue," he spoke at last, putting a lid over the stew of emotions precariously on the verge of boiling over. "You ain't told me de whole story, have you. Destiny's been givin' you more trouble den you've been lettin' on."

She looked up at him with a level gaze, and he smiled wryly at her.

"Come now, Rogue. How long were we together? Dere some t'ings you can't hide from me." He looked away and added softly: "Just like dere're some t'ings I can't hide from you."

"Remy…"

And it was just like that, just with the simplest calling of his name that she could do it, that she could tip the balance of power between them from his hands and into her own. He clawed to get it back.

" _Non_ ," and his voice was stern, "no 'Remy'. Not in dat voice you do so well, _chere_. Be honest wit' me. You've seen t'ings, haven't you. In your dreams. You seen de future, and you're here because _I'm_ in those dreams, aren't you."

She couldn't lie. Not to him. He knew it.

"Yes."

"And whatever work Irene and Raven were doin'… You want to carry it on, don't you. You want t' finish what dey started, am I right?"

She halted in her tracks and he stopped too, turning to face her, his arm dropping from her shoulder. He'd called her out, and the power was back fully in his grasp again.

"Come on, Rogue," he said impatiently. "You take me for a fool? You come here, talkin' about Destiny and her prophecies… about de past she tried to make for us, about de Black Womb project. I ain't stupid. I saw a connection once too. Me and Sinny, and you and Destiny and Mystique… and in de middle, de Black Womb. But you know what, _chere_? _Thousands_ of mutants were subjects on de Black Womb project. We weren't de only ones."

"The others were mistakes," she told him with certainty.

"Now you soundin' like Sinny." His expression was dark. "You buyin' into _his_ crap too?"

"We serve a purpose, Remy. After everything that's happened, you can't deny it." He shook his head vigorously, disdainfully, and she continued earnestly: "Honesty's like trust, Remy – it's a two-way street too. And Ah know you well enough to know that the fact that Essex has a piece of your brain ain't the _real_ reason you're still taggin' along with him. What you _really_ want to know is _why he made you._ And why he's still so darn interested in you, even after all these years and all the grief you've given him."

That shut his mouth. He realised she'd been keeping this particular card close to her chest, and that now the balance of power lay firmly in her grasp. _Touché,_ and _well played_ , he thought, but the praise was only begrudgingly given.

"All right," he spoke at last, belligerently. "You're right. Looks like we know each other too well, _chere_."

And it wasn't her fault; it was just so completely unfair considering all the work he put into keeping himself half hidden in every single relationship he'd found himself wandering into. It galled him. It made him angrier than he knew he had a right to be.

"So whaddaya want from me?" he finally asked, spreading his hands out. "Looks like Gambit's everyone's damn pawn, so what de fuck does it matter?"

"Ah need you to help me," she returned with a calm that made it worse, that only made him angrier.

"Of course you do," he snorted.

"Remy, _please_ …"

He didn't want to hear it.

"Y'know, Rogue," he began, coming in close and jabbing his finger in her chest, "I spent a lifetime 'helpin' out' others. First de Guilds, den Essex, and den Destiny t'inks she can screw wit' my life. But de _last_ person I expected dis from was _you_. _You_ were de one who was supposed to help me escape from all dat shit."

She looked down at the finger that was still poking her chest, reached out calmly and pushed it away.

"Ah'm _the one reason_ why you _can't_ escape it, sugah."

" _Really_?" A sneer crossed his face. "You know somet'ing? You're right. So maybe dat's why I should walk away right now and pretend I never met you in de first place."

He swung round with a swish of his coat and stomped off, the blood pulsing behind his eyes, the salt she'd poured on his wounds fizzing and festering away at everything he'd tried to keep hidden the past few months.

 _Stupid, self-righteous bitch_ , he thought. And, _you t'ink you know me, chere, but you ain't got a fuckin' clue._

He rounded the corner, out of sight, stamping down the street, whisking up his injured, tortured thoughts to the angry tempo of his footsteps.

 _I kill, I hurt, I sacrifice, I do everyt'ing in my power to keep you safe and what do I get in return? You, you and your demands and your expectation of more help. Haven't I given you enough? Haven't I given up enough of myself for you?_

He grimaced to himself, walking against the wind, feeling it hit his face, savouring its attempts to push him back, to hold him down, to throw back in his face every last one of his traitorous thoughts. He let it try. He pushed back against it with all his might. Heaved against the current that was drawing him inexorably back into the other direction.

 _What is it?_ he thought, after all. _What is it dat makes her deserve anyt'ing more from me when I've given her her life?_ _What is it dat she's given me dat I haven't given her?_

And even as he thought the words, he saw the answer, clear as day.

 _My life_.

He came to a sudden standstill outside an abandoned storefront and let the wind engulf him. He stood, tall and lean, hands in his pockets, his figure huddled into his coat.

" _My_ life," he said out loud this time.

Because she'd given him hers. At least she would have, if he'd let her.

And he knew he'd never given his in return.

Even when they'd been together, he'd drawn this line between him and her. That was her space. This was his. His life, her life. There were points of intersection, of course, but he was the one who got to pick and choose exactly where they were. He'd only let her see what he'd wanted her to see. But Rogue… she'd never drawn that same line of demarcation around herself. She'd given him everything. Let him see all there was to see. Let him touch all there was to touch.

He let out a pent-up breath and leaned against the store front, his fingers unconsciously going for his cards again. He shuffled them between his hands, a blur of movement, the crisp whirr of plastic-coated card ticking off his train of inner contemplation.

She gave him everything. Without having to be asked. And he had allowed himself to think that in protecting her life he had given her the greatest gift of all, because it eased his conscience, because it made him feel justified in the fact that he could take what he wanted from her and pick and choose what he gave in return.

 _Selfish prick_ , he berated himself. It was the first time he'd ever consciously called himself that and felt guilty.

 _Selfish._

He knew then that he couldn't walk away from her.

It didn't mean that he could dare to retrace his steps and go back to her, but it did mean that he could wait here until she came to him, as he knew it was inevitable that she should.

Aching minutes passed before she did just that.

He didn't look at her as she rounded the corner, noticed him there, and made her undisguised, unguarded approach. He couldn't bear to meet that honesty. He concentrated on his cards. He tried to put up that front of _I don't care_ , when he knew she could see right through it.

She stopped right there beside him, her presence like the heat of a flame scorching him with its brilliance. He swallowed because he suddenly found he could barely breathe.

"Remy…" she began, soft, questing, not knowing where to begin.

"Rogue," he cut across her pause in a mutter, "I couldn't forget you if I tried. Even if I _wanted_ to."

The cards whirred softly in his hands. She reached out and grasped his wrist, saying silently, _stop, stop feinting._ And he did. He stopped, the cards fanned out in mid-air.

"Remy…" she murmured, that siren call again, making his throat go thick with barely concealed desire. He _had_ to hide it. He couldn't let her _win_ , even if, in his heart of hearts, he knew she had already.

"You ask me for help, _chere_ ," he spoke in a low voice. "What makes you t'ink I should give it to you?"

"You're still here, ain'tcha?" she returned lightly, and a sardonic smile pushed at the corner of his lips.

"Wouldn't be me if I didn't wanna case out a potential _deal_ , Rogue…" He levered himself away from the wall and she released her grip on him reluctantly, her arm dropping to her side. He turned to face her, closed the pack of cards one-handed, slipped them back into his pouch. "Especially if you're gonna lay somet'ing _interestin'_ on de table in return…"

"No jokes, Remy," she murmured, and yet again he couldn't help it, he reached out and brushed that same lock of hair behind her ear again and said: "You t'ink I'm jokin'…" His laugh was soft, sardonic. "Kind of ironic, neh, _chere_? De one time I tell you de truth and you t'ink I'm playin' wit' you…"

It was what he did. Lie, manipulate. Say things to smooth a path of least resistance. She was no exception. She never had been. And he was secure in that knowledge, the knowledge that, however things stood between them, he had the power to play her and get away with it, however gently, however tenderly he might do so.

"Ah ain't a fool, Remy," she told him seriously. His fingers were still there, pressing against that sweet spot behind her ear, and she took his wrist again, moved his hand away. "Ah know you wouldn't be standin' here waitin' for me if there wasn't somethin' in it for you."

And his voice was low, charged as he said: "Maybe _you're_ de t'ing dat's in it for me…"

Her hand tightened instinctively on his wrist.

" _Stop it,_ " she hissed, but his face remained straight, this time betraying nothing.

"Stop what, _chere_?" he asked her quietly. "You still don't believe me?"

And somehow, for some reason, he wanted her trust, he wanted to prove to her that _some_ things about him could be an open book to her. So he took her free hand with his own, placed it against his cheek. "So take de truth from me, _chere_. Absorb me. You've done it before, it won't make any difference."

"You _know_ that's not true," she retorted heatedly, but he wasn't halfway done yet.

"Really? You don't seem to be too worried about talkin' to de 'me' up dere in your head. If dat's de case, why don't you absorb me right now? Everyt'ing you need t' know will be right dere. _Everyt'ing_. All my secrets, all my lies laid bare." She stared up at him dumbly, and he pressed her hand tighter against his face, continued in a furious rush: "And you still t'ink I'm playin' you, _chere_ , when I've laid everyt'ing right dere in front of you, Rogue. All my cards on de table. You can have it all, _chere_. _All_ of it. All of _me_."

She hesitated. He knew his offer was an empty one, because he knew, deep down, that she wouldn't, _couldn't_ , absorb him, that it went against everything she stood for to absorb someone out of greed and need and not necessity. But it was the _point_ he was trying to make that wasn't empty. It was the fact that he was willing to take a step back from the power struggle between them, that he was willing to put all the control into her hands and let her make the decision, even if he knew that it was one she couldn't make.

"You know Ah can't do that," she told him on a breath exactly what he was thinking.

"You did it once."

"When there was nothing left to lose."

He knew that too; and she knew he did. He took that moment of realisation to move his other hand back behind her ear and this time she didn't remove it, even though her fingers lingered like a brand about his wrist.

"So dis how you play it, _chere_ ," he stated softly. "No risks, all bets off till dere's not'ing left to lose."

"You _know_ that."

Yes. He did. He knew how far she was willing to go, or _not_ go – and because she refused to take the power he offered her, he seized it all back into his own hands.

" _Oui_ ," he returned with a small smile, letting himself slip comfortably back into the role of devil's advocate once more. "But I'm wonderin' now – what is dere left to lose, _chere_? How high are de stakes? What are you playin' for?"

Her gaze darted to his again. He had expected her to crumple, to fall at his feet as he swept the rug out from under her. To his surprise, she stood her ground. She planted her two feet square where she stood and she did what she did best. She matched him.

"Ah'm playin' for _you_ , Remy," she rejoined in a voice like chocolate, like treacle tart. The pad of her thumb grazed the line of his cheekbone; he wasn't even sure whether the movement had been consciously contrived or not.

And a smile twitched on his lips.

He appreciated the fact that if she couldn't get what she wanted, she did exactly what he did so well himself. She cajoled. She wheedled. She _charmed_.

"So I see," he murmured, smooth as butter. "But you ain't willin' t' put de big bucks on me, are you, Rogue."

He still held her palm to his face. It was risk, but he thought, on balance, that it was worth it. Her hand on his cheek. His behind her ear. Equal control. Equal stakes. The look in her eyes told her that she recognised the set-up.

"If Ah absorb you now, whatever Ah learn from you won't change what you do in the future," she explained in a low voice. "Only _you_ can do that."

"Hm." The white lock of hair was escaping from behind her ear and again he held it back, smoothing the errant strands back into place and caressing her almost casually as he did so. "So. What dis all comes down to in de end is just how much you can manipulate me into doing what you want, and how much I can manipulate you in believin' you want somet'ing else entirely."

Her green eyes flickered. He measured them, saw that he was doing a pretty good job of goading her with his words; but he also saw that she wasn't about to let him win _that_ easily.

"Ah was hopin' more that we could manipulate one another into somethin' we _both_ want," she returned, clawing back a little vestige of that power with the sweet lilt of her Southern accent, the way it twisted and teased and toyed with his heart and promised him whatever he wanted… …

His pulse quickened, now, when he was so close to _getting_ , and it wasn't right, it wasn't right because she was beating him at his own game, she was _stealing_ from him… …

"Now who's playin', _chere_ …?"

"No. No playin', Remy."

"Bullshit, Rogue. Dis what we do. Play games wit' each other…"

"And Ah still have feelin's for you. That's not a game, is it?"

There it was.

Everything he'd said up till now had been an exercise in cajoling those words out of her.

Somehow it still took him by surprise and in that moment of wordlessness she turned, she took back her hand; she walked away.

It only took a second for him to regain himself.

Without even thinking he reached out for her, his hand snapping over her arm, his voice calling her name in a tone that was hoarse, urgent: " _Rogue_."

He didn't have time to take back the desperation inherent in the word.

And when she turned back to him with that expression of heated defiance he knew he had allowed her a point, but he didn't care. For her to walk away was _not_ part of the game. He wouldn't – _couldn't_ – lose her. Not at any cost.

Several moments slipped by wherein they shared a charged gaze, and under her stare he found all words stripped from him – he fought frantically with himself to claw them back.

"Ah know what Ah want, Remy," she spoke quietly when he found he could still say nothing. "And Ah don't want _this_. Lies. _Manipulation_. Ah'm at a disadvantage here – Ah have everythin' to lose and Ah know it. But Ah need your help. And Ah'm beggin' yah here. Ah need you t' be honest with me. No playin', Remy. _Please_."

There it was again – her honesty, teasing every false move he would make away from him. Unravelling it. Turning it into the truth.

Fool or not he couldn't help but love her for it.

He pulled her in towards him, and she didn't resist as he drew her as close to him as he dared, cupped her face between his palms and murmured passionately:

"No games, _chere_. You t'ink I would have come here if _I_ didn't have _feelin's…_?"

It wasn't a lie, although he was sure she had taken it to be one; yet, despite all this, she made a small sound from between her parted lips, a sound so achingly sexy that he couldn't help but continue, "I have feelin's, Rogue. You t'ink I can even formulate a damn plan, a damn _lie_ , when I'm near you?"

And _of course_ he could. She just didn't know just how hard she made it for him to do so.

He didn't _want_ to lie.

But this… it was all for her own good. Right?

He'd been watching her lips so intently that he was almost surprised when they started to move.

"Your feelin's and mine ain't the same thing, Remy…"

 _That_ gave him pause for thought.

He had never for one moment considered that she might think that what she felt for him wasn't exactly what he felt for her.

"Really?" he questioned. "How so…?"

The look she gave him then was beautiful – that same steely defiance tempered by that sultry smokiness he knew so well.

"Because," she told him softly, quietly, earnestly. "Ah'm still _in love_ with you, Remy."

And he took in a noisy breath.

Rug pulled out from under him.

The _coup de grace_.

The only thing she could topple him with.

And he scrabbled at it.

All the power she'd snatched from him.

All the control he'd brought into play.

Everything, all the resources he'd come here with, all the carefully counted chips, weighed out and neatly stacked and accounted for.

He took a final flailing dive for it when he was this close to her, mere inches away from where he _needed_ to be.

And one look in her eyes told him.

It told him there was no need to win.

That they _both_ wanted the same thing.

That they were _both_ winners in this game.

She'd known it and he hadn't.

And she was beautiful and clever and he _wanted_ her as much as she _wanted_ him.

He moved, she moved, they both moved; their lips came together and then their mouths, and everything moved fast, moved slow, all the passions chained by long months of self-denial finally unleashed, his body racing faster than thought would allow, his senses feeding greedily, ravenously, on her taste, her touch, her scent, drinking deeply, sating a thirst he'd barely known existed.

His hunger, unacknowledged, hounded him onward, and, _fuck it_ , he would've made love to her, right there, right then, when she matched his hunger with her own.

That first headrush died, fizzled, burned out, the dizzy heights of their lust leaving them with nothing but their angry kiss.

 _Breathe_ , said the seasoned seducer in him, but he couldn't, he wasn't halfway close to having had his fill.

It was she who took the lead.

Slowing it down, reining it in, making it _real_.

He resisted, ready to stalk down every last drop of what she had to give him even if it entailed violence, and he nearly caught her. He nearly snared her, just as she broke away and _inhaled_ , shallow, shaky; and he felt a momentary confusion as she buried her face in his neck, _right there_ , and _breathed_ …

The darkness swirled around him, his senses tingled with her taste, with the warmth of her breath on his skin, the touch of her lips on his neck.

It took half a moment more for him to remember to breathe himself.

 _Slow down, LeBeau_ , some inner voice scolded him through all the white noise, and he did, he slowed the thunderous crashing of his heartbeat to something more manageable when he knew he was in danger of regressing back to needy and seventeen once more.

 _Okay._

 _I'm ready now._

 _Let's start again._

 _I'll take your lead, chere._

 _Show me how you want it._

 _Let's go slow._

He twined his hand in her hair, nudging her head back gently, running his gaze over her pink lips, all parted and ready for him, and he answered her invitation, moving his mouth against hers, seeking the _starting point_ and finding it right there waiting for him and they played it out, they let each moment guide them, and _god, he was kissing her again,_ he was kissing her again and he didn't want to stop, he didn't want to surface.

He let her lead it.

He let her because it was another form of selfishness.

Because his mind wouldn't let him compute a damn thing.

He let her stop when she wanted to, and he let her start again when she felt like it, and the only thing he had to be thankful for was the fact that she wanted it to continue just as much as he did.

When they both heard the Sentinel approach further down the street, he honestly felt it could've been minutes or hours later. It was probably the only thing, bar the end of the world itself, that could've forced them apart. They stood, foreheads touching, breathing lightly, fighting the urge to continue right where they had left off.

"Bad place to be loiterin'…" he muttered, to her, to himself, to no one in particular. It was instinct rather than wilful self-preservation that made them both duck into the nearest alleyway, only narrowly avoiding the searchlight of the Sentinel as it scoured the streets for any mutants hanging around after curfew. Remy wasn't bothered – he had Forge's nullifying device on him, masking him from the machine's sensors. He felt almost 100% certain Rogue did too. What he didn't like was the fact that his cosy little seduction ( _rendezvous_ , he corrected himself absently) had been interrupted.

He licked his lips, still wet with the taste of her, and watched as Rogue peeked round the corner and into the street.

"It goin'?" he asked her; she shook her head.

"Nope. It's just stayin' there."

She turned back to him, those sweet lips caught in a frown.

"Hm," he muttered. "Takin' its time t'night. Wonder why."

The next moment the reason became clear. The sound of inhuman howling was carried clearly on the night breeze, unholy shrieks that sent the hackles of most people – mutants or statics – standing on end.

"Hounds," Remy swore under his breath. " _Merde_."

"We're down wind from them," Rogue warned him. "We'd better go."

He took her hand in his, tugged her towards him.

"Come wit' me."

 _-_ oOo-

Continued in chapter 3.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Characters belong to Marvel. I think.

 **Warning:** Sex, language.

 **A/N: Plug alert! So _House of Cards_ was nominatedfor an award at the Fanatic Fanfiction Awards, and the first round of voting finishes today! (Sunday!) The link is on my profile! If you enjoyed reading HoC, please, please do vote for it, I would be ever so indebted and grateful! :D**

Just a big shout out also to **slightlyxjaded**! Your review was amazing and I was so touched to read it! Thank you _so_ much! I live to make these kinds of connections with people! :D

-Ludi x

* * *

 **The Other Side of Dance**

 **. III .**

He guided her through the maze of alleyways, quickly, quietly, only letting go of her hand when she decided to do so.

Behind them the drumbeat of the Sentinel's footsteps faded the further the distance they put between them. The sound never fully died though; and neither did the Hounds' howls.

"Where're we goin'?" Rogue asked after a few minutes.

"My place," he replied in a hushed voice, and the silence that answered him was enough for him to figure out what she was probably thinking.

"It's safe and it's close," he explained unnecessarily – they both pretty much knew where this was leading, and it was really the only conclusion either of them could think of. "You know of a better place?" he added, just to give her the chance to back out if she wanted to. His glance slid over his shoulder in her direction. The penetrating warmth of her returning gaze told him everything he needed to know.

He let himself look forward to it then.

The interlude, this little reward he'd set up for himself, because he pretty much knew that come tomorrow things were going to be shitty between them again.

He stole a look at his watch. The time had inched past half nine. He thought of how every precious moment was slipping from between his fingers; he thought about how often things had been like this between them in the past; he thought about how, once this whole charade was over and done with, he'd be able to hold all those moments in his hands and never let them go.

Time would be his; and so would she.

xxx

It wasn't really his apartment.

He spent most of his days now in Sinister's complex, but she didn't have to know that.

He let her think that he spent most of his days in comparative squalor here, when really he lived his life in the lap of luxury at the Devil's table.

The door he unlocked and threw open was not the door to his inner life.

It was the door to his professional life – a safehouse of sorts – a small base of operations for the few times he wanted stuff done that he didn't want Essex knowing anything about. Essex knew about _her_ now, there was no helping _that_ – but he wanted to keep _this_ a secret.

Essex didn't need to know that the son he had bought and paid for was still owned by the woman who now followed him over the threshold and into the dingy one-room apartment. Not _yet_ , anyhow.

Remy let Rogue gather in her surroundings whilst he locked and bolted the door. He didn't bother flipping the light switches. There was light enough from the streetlamps just outside the window; a bluish tinted light that reminded him of the sheen on dried, spilt ink. The patrol was still within hearing distance. The baying of the Hounds was far away but still recognisable. He crossed the room to the window, business-like, and looked out. The head and shoulders of the Sentinel loomed over the silhouettes of tower blocks and high-rise buildings, showing no sign of making an exit.

"Damn," he muttered half to himself. "Dat Sentinel looks to be headed in our direction. But as long as we're inside and not breakin' curfew, we'll be okay…"

He was stating the obvious; she said nothing.

He snapped the curtains shut and turned to her. She stood in the centre of the room, looking at him, silent. Waiting. It made him aware that their previous conversation at the pier had been left hanging, no resolution having been reached. She'd asked him for help; he hadn't agreed to give her that help, but he hadn't said no either. It occurred to him that half the reason she'd agreed to follow him here was because he hadn't given her an answer. He rationalised what he knew would follow by telling himself that he _would_ give her an answer. Just not now.

Yeah.

He was being selfish again, but fuck he wanted it and he wanted it bad, he wasn't going to wait another moment.

He had her right here after all. He _had_ her.

He wet his lips and she broke eye contact first, shrugging off her jacket and pausing, holding it in her hand as her eyes met his again, asking him a question with her gaze that he interpreted as saying _well?_ when it could've meant any number of things.

He didn't want to bother himself with the various pitfalls of translation, so he did the only thing he could. He covered the space between them until he was within arm's length of her. He held out his hand; she handed him the jacket.

Feint or honest mistake, he wasn't sure.

He took it, he looked at it, he threw it aside in a corner.

 _C'mon_ , he thought. _Let's not be coy. I want you. You want me. Come to me, chere. Show me that you want me. I'll show you that I want you too._

And she came. Slow, measured steps. She came right within an inch of him and stopped. She was so close he could feel the warmth of her, smell the scent of her hair, almost feel the crash of her heartbeat.

 _Oh no no no no no. Don't do dis t' me, chere. Don't make me take it all. Don't make me, sweet._

He touched her cheek, leaned forward, put his face in her hair. He breathed her in, rocked her gently in his barely-there embrace, not daring to cross that line until she moved herself, raising her face to his and letting him taste her again.

And he kissed her, painfully aware of how little time he had and how much he had to lose in driving this too far, too fast.

 _Slow_ , he reminded himself somewhere, somehow. _Keep it slow_. _Let her take de lead, let her start it._

And he did. He kissed her slow and deep and let her wash away all the little betrayals he'd allowed himself during their time apart. He forgot them all as she laid her palms on his chest, slid them upward and around his neck, in his hair, holding him close with such simple, honest passion.

And he let her stop, he let her break slightly away from him, he let her look up into his eyes and catch her lower lip with her teeth as she struggled with the need to tell him something she couldn't articulate.

"What?" he murmured, nipping her lower lip, wanting her to say something, _anything_ , anything to prove to him that he wasn't exactly what Clarity said he was – a shit, a snake, a cheat, a liar.

She pulled away again a little, gazing at him with those heartbreaking eyes, her fingers still running gently through his hair. He had an idea of what she wanted to say.

 _You set me up._

 _You never gave me an answer._

 _This is the only reason you dragged me out tonight._

 _We're both just going right back to square one, and this time tomorrow things are gonna be shitty b'tween us again, aren't they?_

But she didn't say any of those things. She took his hand in her own and said, softly, "here." She guided him to the zipper of her bodysuit and he tugged it downward, right to the bottom, and she pushed the sleeves off of her arms, and he pushed the rest of it over her hips and down her thighs, over her knees, past her calves, until he was kneeling right there in front of her with his heart beating in his mouth and his loins aching powerfully.

He looked up at her.

He slid his finger under the side elastic of her plain cotton panties.

He leaned forward.

He stopped within a fraction of an inch of her and breathed in her musk.

He parted his lips and asked her with his eyes and waited for her to whisper, " _yes_ …"

And he warmed her with his breath till her own lips parted and she panted and he was that close to putting his tongue on her, right there and then.

" _Remy_ ," she whispered instead, and he backed away, he kissed a trail upward, over her navel, in the valley between her breasts, her throat, her chin, and he recaptured her lips whilst he got himself out of these damn clothes that suddenly seemed the most unnecessary things in the world. They led one another to the bed, pausing only to discard another superfluous item of clothing, and when they finally got there he sat on the edge as she stood before him; he pulled down her panties and she stepped out of them, just as the blazing circle of light slid in through the window, illuminating the darkness of the room in a skin-crawling brightness.

For a moment the marble whiteness of her skin was flushed warm and tawny in the searchlight's glow. She paused, looked over at the window, her body frozen.

"It's de Sentinels," he explained in a hoarse voice, placing a longing hand on her hip. "We're okay, _chere_. Just pretend dey ain't dere."

The words were rushed, his accent thicker than usual with impatience and lust. She heard the desperation in his voice; the searchlight passed over, drowning them both once more in the inky blackness of the night. They lay on the bed together and embraced and kissed and explored and _oh, oh, oh_ , she was so soft, so sweet, so familiar and comforting and sexy and beautiful and he didn't think he could get through tonight without drowning in the depths of her.

And yet again he was painfully aware that somewhere not very far away, Sinister was gathering his Marauders together, getting ready to put Plan A together, and whilst he had a way of fucking Plan A over, he knew there was going to be a Plan B and a Plan C and that he might as well stick to Plan A because Plan A got Rogue where he needed her to be, and that was in Essex's clutches.

 _Shit_.

A searchlight brushed past the window again, and he felt Rogue momentarily freeze beneath him. It was instinct, he knew it. It'd taken him a while to get used to it too.

Remy kissed that spot behind her ear and tried to break her out of the relative silence she'd maintained since she'd arrived here. Not only that, but he needed a way to assuage his own guilt when he thought about what kind of shit he was going to have to pull on her the following morning.

"Say somethin'," he whispered, and she looked him in the eye, murmured, "What?"

"I dunno. _Anythin'._ "

The searchlight again. They made her eyes shine like emeralds in the darkness.

"Like what?"

 _Like what?_

Like whatever she did best – say the truth. Say something from the heart.

But she still said nothing, and he couldn't bear it – not her silence, nor the idea that he could hold back from her another moment longer.

Stark compulsion grasped him, and he dipped his head, running kisses down the length of her neck, her shoulder, his mouth capturing the soft curves of her breast, his hands caressing her skin, skin he'd dreamt of, fantasised about, missed so acutely that to be feeling it beneath his palms again was the most intoxicating thing he could remember experiencing. So intoxicating that he lost himself in it, in _her_ , in all those missed months without her…

"Remy…" he heard her protest, breaking the reverie the taste of her flesh brought him to.

" _Say somethin'_ ," he breathed, climbing back upwards again because frankly he didn't think he could last the next few minutes without losing control of himself completely.

She was panting, her cheeks flushed, her lips plump with arousal, and he hooked her gaze with his own, willing her to speak, to take him away from the intensity of this moment, from all the pain he would deliver her up to… Something. _Anything._

The sweet nothings they'd traded back in the summer house.

Or better still, the incoherent ramblings of those heady, lust-fuelled nights they'd spent out on the road.

But what he got instead was none of those things.

She gave him the honesty he so craved, harpooning his gaze with unassuming simplicity, saying in an almost breathless whisper: "Ah've missed you, Remy."

And he groaned. He wanted in her _now_.

He nudged at the entrance of her, and just as he was _right there_ , caught in this horrible no man's land of neither _in_ nor _out_ , of cold frustration and warm satisfaction… that was when the Hounds outside started to scream.

Her body went rigid beneath him.

" _Damn_!" he blasted violently, the bloodcurdling screams dampening even his own arousal. He waited it out a few moments, but the clamour didn't die down – far from it, it seemed to draw closer to the street outside his little apartment, and he knew it would be a fair while now before it passed. Simmering with unappeased frustration and lust, he cursed and rolled heavily onto his back beside her, seething with resentment that this moment – this precious moment between them that he wanted like nothing else – could be so rudely and unceremoniously interrupted.

"Fuckin' assholes got you up here wit' me," he muttered vehemently. "But I guess dey don't know when de fuck dey ain't wanted no more."

The Hounds, oblivious to his predicament, went right on screaming on top of him, the unholy song taking on a new timbre, an extra ominous dissonance. His blood cooled instinctively at the horrible sound. He knew this particular tune, and he knew she did too. It was a triumphal march – the Hounds had either caught their prey or made a kill. It was another nudge to his guilt, and he didn't like it.

Beside him Rogue shifted onto her side, sensing, he thought, the roiling sense of disquiet in him. For a moment she watched him, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, still choppy with mixed frustration and desire. When she reached out for him he had expected it – what he hadn't expected was the tenderness of her touch, the delicacy of her caresses. He watched her fingers as they travelled the length of his body, long and white as marble in the pale night, traversing the trelliswork of his scars, evidence of all the wounds he had borne during the course of his misspent life.

He drew in a breath, let it out slowly, shakily.

How in hell could a woman both soothe and stir a man like she did, with the mere lightest of touches?

Her caresses trailed downwards and he could barely breathe, could hardly formulate a thought as she dipped a finger into his navel, followed the light track of hairs right down to… …

She paused.

He watched as her fingers meandered away, uninvited, to the right side of his abdomen, to a small, star-like scar nestled there under his ribs. There was a different look in her eyes now – an intentness, a curiosity, a hunger, almost – as she traced the outline of the healed wound with just the tip of her fingernail, and…

And a memory tugged at him, a memory of _running from the mansion with the army hot on his tail, no time to turn back, no time to save her… the sound of a gunshot and he's been hit he's been hit he's been hit…_

It was instinct – he reached out, stayed her hand, linked her fingers with his own, drew her away from a piece of his past he couldn't bear for her to touch.

Because _that_ particular wound had almost cost him his life, and for the longest time he'd also thought that it had cost him her own too.

The pain that had come with it was one that he never wanted her to see.

He took her hand and raised it to his lips, and she lifted her eyes to his, a _question_ behind that gaze, one he was glad that she didn't ask him.

The song of the Hounds had retreated to a more comfortable distance, and between that and the guileless seduction of her touches, he was ready to pick up from where he had left off.

"Rogue," he said, and he kissed her hand, her knuckles, the joints of her fingers, and;

"Remy…" she murmured, as he kissed the inside of her wrist, his tongue tasting the remnants of perfume that clung to her milky white skin, a scent he'd almost forgotten, and, " _Beautiful…_ " he found himself whispering with heartfelt sincerity, because she _was_ , and at this particular moment in time he was willing to worship it till his dying day.

 _And dat might come soon, Remy LeBeau_ , hissed the voice in his head. _So let's wrap dis up, shall we?_

The thought was traitorous, but it was at least the truth.

Because there was a part of him that wanted to savour this moment, and there was another part that was painfully aware of all the shit that was coming down tomorrow, and he knew this was just him taking advantage of her but God he needed this, he needed her, what the fuck was he reasoning with himself about this for…?

He eased her onto her back with his body, locking her hand on the pillow above her head, the smooth heat of her curves coming right up flush against him, and _God, she was perfect_ , her gaze latched onto his with mingled steel and warmth, both a surrender and a challenge, and _he wanted her he wanted her he wanted her_ , he wanted her so badly it fucking _hurt_ like nothing had ever hurt before.

"I've missed you too, y'know…" he muttered, almost beside himself with ungratified desire. "Your hair… your lips… your mouth…" He moved forward, unable to help himself, feathering kisses against her jaw, adding, "your skin… against mine… Your eyes, _chere_ …"

She said nothing; but her breath was coming hard and fast and told him more than any words could.

He hooked her knee and lifted her thigh, hiking it up against his waist, his hip, shifting her body into brutal, flawless alignment with his. He heard her gasp; he pressed his tongue up against the back of his teeth and sucked in an involuntary moan.

She was hot and slick and wet and it all he could do to stop himself from plunging himself right into her and fucking the goddamn daylights out of her.

Because reason, instinct – every damn thing in him – was telling him to shut the fuck up and have his way with her.

But there was something else – an angel on his shoulder, the thing that had brought him to her, the thing that had brought him to Essex on this fucked up quest to save her life – that was telling him that this wasn't his choice to make.

Even though, technically, he'd made it for her.

This had to be _her_ choice – even if it was just an illusion, even if he knew she would never say no to this.

He needed her to reassure him that she wanted this, even if this was the last possible second and he was _right there_ , practically _inside_ her and he didn't even know if he could turn back even if she asked him to.

" _Gawd_ …" he heard her say.

It roused him from his trance, and the words formed in his mind somehow, words to give her that out, to give her that choice: "Tell me you want it, _chere_ ," he said.

And she said _nothing_. Just stared up at him with her chest heaving and her lips parted and her eyebrows together like she'd hardly understood a goddamn thing he'd just said.

" _Tell me_ ," he growled, almost beside himself with the torture… and _that_ was when she moved, when her foot slid round to the small of his back and pressed him there with just a slightest insinuation of pressure and it was a _yes…_

A yes.

It was all he needed.

He sank into her slowly and _god god god_ _god god_ … …

For a moment he could barely believe it, that every card he'd played had led him to this – and he realised that until this moment, he had hardly dared to entertain the fact that it would _actually_ happen.

Eleven long months without her opened up liked a stuffed closet, all the pent up need and desire bleeding out before him and he was amazed – _stunned_ – at just how much of it there was.

It nailed him down right where he was, pinned him down and refused to let him go.

And that was when she reached out.

Ran her fingers down his face.

Awakened him with her touch.

She made a little sound in her throat that he didn't even think she was conscious of, but that he was pretty sure was the sexiest thing he'd ever heard.

And everything after that was the most delicious of blurs.

 _-_ oOo-

Was he being exactly the kind of asshole Clarity thought he was?

Was he just taking advantage of her, was he merely manipulating her into something he wanted because he knew that he might not ever have a chance to be here and do this with her again?

Every time he'd asked himself this question the past couple of hours, he'd told himself the answer was _no_.

But he knew now that the answer was _yes_.

Everything he had planned, all the bad, all the good, it was _for her_ , but he knew well enough that what lay in store for her was only just another kind of betrayal and that she would be hurt. She'd taken so much crap from him in the past and never walked away. He wasn't sure that that would still stand after tomorrow. He wasn't certain that, if she even lived, she would ever come back to him again. What this night, this lovemaking, was all about was simple. It was him pre-empting the fact that he might never get a chance to be with her like this again.

He told himself that if she knew the shit storm that was coming tomorrow, she'd feel the same way. She'd want this too.

She was the one, after all, who'd called him.

She was the one who'd told him she still loved him.

She was the one who'd guided his hand to her zipper.

It was a meagre comfort; but it was enough of a comfort for him to toss all other questions aside.

He knew why he was doing what he was doing. The reason was obvious; it answered all questions with an elegant and profound simplicity.

In the headrush of his orgasm, it came at him loud and clear.

 _I love you I love you I love you._

 _-_ oOo-

Later they lay together, his feet twined in the sheets at the foot of the bed, her toes kicking lazily at the headboard, their heads meeting somewhere in the middle.

He wasn't entirely sure how long they'd been lying like this, but it had probably been for a while now.

Their eyes on one another, the perfect silence broken only by their meandering kisses and their meandering touches, by these spontaneous moments of intimacy that they couldn't bear to deny.

They'd barely exchanged a word the past half hour, which he didn't necessarily think was a bad thing. There were a lot of words that had been pushing dangerously at his lips since he'd got here, and he knew there was a risk that if he started talking he wouldn't stop, that everything he'd kept hidden would come oozing out.

It was better to speak to one another like this, with their eyes, with their bodies. It was better to stave off any questions he knew she might have with a tender touch that might as well mean nothing.

He knew that one of them would have to break first, however, and that indefinite silence was not a possibility. In the past, conversation had rarely been a part of the post-coital ritual for him – it was usually a case of turn over, pretend to sleep, wait for the other party to doze off and then sneak out.

But here he could hardly sneak out of his own apartment; besides which, over the course of his relationship with Rogue, furtive sneaking and subterfuge had never really been necessary. Some nights they'd spent hours talking, laughing and messing around in between lazy, unhurried bouts of lovemaking.

This right here… it was weird.

It was somewhere in-between the furtive, sneaky bit and the comfortable, cosy, _nice_ bit.

Because they weren't exactly together anymore; but neither was she just some sort of cheap fuck for the night. Far from it, in fact.

Besides, there were so many questions he wanted to ask her. Simple questions, ones that didn't have anything to do with Essex or the Black Womb or anything she might have found out about his past. Like where she had been the past few months, what she had done. Who she had been with, and whether she had found somebody else. He knew she didn't owe him an answer to any of those things, and he knew that by rights he no longer had a monopoly on her life, not when he'd walked out of it and refused to contact her without reason or rhyme. But he still wanted to know, nevertheless. The pain of his enforced separation from her had left him hungry for all the old intimacies they had shared, the ones that had nothing to do with _this –_ with sex. It was all the little things he missed most – the sharing of one another's space, the familiarity, the casualness. The trust.

The things she gave him implicitly.

"What are you thinkin' about?" she asked him quietly, interrupting his train of thought.

Her palm was on his face, her thumb gently brushing the stubble on his chin, the swell of his lower lip. He could hardly tell her what he was thinking about; but it wasn't a lie when he encapsulated it all in the single word, "You."

The corner of her mouth dimpled – a little crinkle that was painfully kissable.

"Kinda unoriginal, don'tcha think?" she remarked with a raised eyebrow, and he bantered back softly, "I have a one-track mind." He paused, allowed himself a smile, tugged a curl of her white hair with his forefinger, continued: "But you knew dat already, neh?"

Her smile was only half there, more wistful than playful.

"Uh huh."

She'd been like this all evening. Uncertain, holding something back. Under the circumstances he couldn't really blame her. She knew he was working for Essex now, and this was just her taking precautions. But it was more than that, and he knew it. She wanted something from him, and he wasn't sure he was ready to face whatever that was just yet.

He glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the nightstand.

It was coming up to midnight, and soon today would tip into tomorrow, and that would be a _very bad thing_.

 _Fuck_.

"What is it?" she questioned, reading his expression with the minimum of effort. He looked back at her, momentarily piqued that he was sometimes so damn transparent to her, letting her curl bounce free of his finger.

"Nothin'."

He paused as he silently traced her collarbone with a forefinger, running it over the chain of the butterfly pendant she still so proudly wore, the swell of her breast and the dark crest of her nipple.

"Just don't want tomorrow to come, is all," he muttered, unable to help himself.

"Well," she murmured back softly, "tomorrow can be whatever you want it to be, sugah."

 _Can it?_

His expression was sardonic.

"Gotta job tomorrow," he rejoined, not looking into her eyes, but concentrating on the way her flesh puckered under his touch. "So it's a little more complicated than _that_. Don't got much time for play these days."

He sighed, shifting over onto his back and staring at the ceiling. She sensed that he didn't particularly want to talk about it, and to her credit she didn't ask, even though he knew she wanted to question him about what he was doing for Sinister and why exactly he'd gone back to him. He was grateful for her silence on _that_ score, more than she knew. He wasn't sure he could even begin to tell her all the lies he'd concocted to cover his ass without breaking down into the truth and giving everything away.

"You have enough time for play," she quipped slyly instead. "We _are_ here naked in your bed after all, y'know…"

"Rogue," he rejoined, shooting her a meaningful look. "Just for de record – dis is not play. Fuckin' _you_ is a very serious business."

She made a rude noise with her mouth in reply.

"Such a charmer," he heard her mutter under her breath, and he laughed.

"You love, it chere. Don't pretend you don't."

"Ah love it when you're _honest_ ," she remarked pointedly, and the next moment she was running her hand up the inside of his thigh with an almost torturous languor. He hadn't been expecting it. The noise that came out the back of his throat was almost a whimper.

"I _am_ bein' honest," he returned, his voice coming thick; she didn't stop.

"Hmm," she said instead. The timbre of her voice was pensive rather than doubtful, and when he looked at her he found her eyes looking right into his.

"What?" he asked quietly, huskily.

Her eyes flickered; her hand continued to stroke his thigh slowly.

"Ah'm just wonderin' when Ah'm gonna get t' see you again," she half-whispered. "If things are gonna be like they were back at the safehouse… Ah don't wanna haveta wait another year for us t' hook up again… Ah want _every_ night to be like this…"

He couldn't help it. He reached up to her, slid his palm round the back of her neck, drew her down towards him slowly.

"Me too…" he murmured, capturing her mouth with his own before she could interrogate his honesty. The ploy worked, long enough to distract her from talking, more than enough to promise further delights.

And then his phone rang.

He dragged his mouth from hers and they both stared at each other for a long moment, knowing that this was an interruption that couldn't be good.

Remy hesitated, torn, before making a decision. He had a fair idea of who was calling, and he knew it wouldn't be a good idea to ignore him.

"Sorry, _chere_ ," he murmured. "Gimme a sec. I should take dis."

The poker face she gave him was almost as good as his own.

"Sure."

She rolled out of the way and he sat up, pulled on his boxer shorts, and retrieved his phone from the pocket of his trenchcoat which had been lying, haphazard, on the floor. He stood, tapped 'ACCEPT CALL'.

"'Lo," he said, crossing the floorboards to the window, knowing exactly whose voice it would be on the other end.

"LeBeau," and Essex's greeting was, as usual, faintly mocking. "I take it you're busy moonlighting?"

Remy swivelled at the window, leaned back against the sill with his elbows, passed Rogue a conspiratorial grin. "Well, y'know me," he replied, smooth as peanut butter, "I gotta have my distractions."

He smiled as he saw Rogue prop herself up on her elbow, chin in hand, and roll her eyes. Sinister, it seemed, was similarly unimpressed.

"Just as long as you haven't forgotten about our very important little assignment tomorrow…" he intoned, soft as velvet, cold as ice.

Remy half-frowned.

" _Non_." He turned back to the window, knowing Rogue had seen the frown and wanting to hide it from her. " _Non_ , I ain't forgotten."

"Good." Essex's tone was curt. "Because I am trusting you to deliver, and if you do not…" He did not bother elaborating, nor did he need to. "Clarity sent me the coordinates sent from the girl's phone. We have a location."

" _Bon_ ," Remy rejoined in a low voice, pulling back the curtain slightly and staring onto the street. The lights were out. It was dark, almost pitch black.

"We put our plan into action at 800 hours tomorrow morning," Essex's voice continued. "Be sure you are ready, LeBeau. Your participation is…essential."

"Uh huh."

He knew why. They'd gone over the plan several times before in anticipation of this one moment – the moment where Rogue would make contact – and he knew exactly how this was supposed to go. The fact that she was right there, lying naked on the bed behind him, made the thought of what he had to do doubly hard to stomach.

Remy absently went for the almost-empty pack of cigarettes he'd left on the window sill weeks ago, lit one up with the tip of his finger. He opened the window a little and blew the smoke out into the frigid night air. He waited for Sinister to continue.

"I shall have my Marauders create a distraction," that cool, calm voice began again, "lure the Wolverine's pathetic band of X-Men out of their hiding place. No doubt _she_ will be with them too. Lead her on a song and dance, LeBeau. Make sure she is _safe_ , and bring her to _me_. Is that clear?"

Remy flicked ash into the jar lid he'd left at his elbow.

"Yups," he answered, carefully dispassionate.

"And," Essex continued, with a thin thread of humour, "try not to _damage_ the goods. I am well aware of the _fascination_ you have for this woman, but don't let it carry you away. I know you have a tendency to want to _play_ , but please keep such tendencies to a _minimum_. You may think otherwise, but she is not a plaything. She is a most valuable asset."

" _Oui_ ," Remy replied. "I know."

He half-turned, throwing a glance at Rogue, who was now sitting up under the covers of the bed, absently braiding a lock of her hair, waiting for him to be done. Trying to give him as much privacy as possible, whilst wanting to know exactly what was being said.

"I know," he repeated in a quieter voice.

"Excellent," Essex's voice was now business-like. "Then make sure you get some decent rest. I shall have Clarity send you the coordinates for tomorrow's rendezvous. There'll be two sets – one for the distraction site, the other for where I'll be waiting for the delivery. Make sure you don't disappoint."

 _Do I ever?_ he thought. And then he realised, yes, he did, and so he merely answered with a: "I won't."

And Essex laughed.

"Then don't be late."

And the phone went dead.

He ended the call from his end, his lips pressed tight together, saying nothing; he took one last drag, blew it out into the night, stubbed out his cigarette in the jar lid and closed the window quietly.

When he turned round, Rogue was still sitting there, looking at him with an expression that was trying for nonchalance and not succeeding at all. He knew then that she knew who he'd been talking to.

"Damn," was all he said.

The word pretty much summed up the entire state of affairs into one neat little bundle.

"Work?" she asked him, and he nodded.

" _Oui_."

"Essex?"

She said the name with more self-control than he thought he could at that moment.

"Yeah."

Her lips twisted in a barely suppressed expression of dissatisfaction. It tugged at him more than a come-hither look, a temptress' smile. It was a look that was impossible to ignore. The only way he could turn away from it was to look aside, and so he did.

"Shitty boss?" she asked him quietly; he still couldn't quite bring himself to meet her gaze.

"Heh," he laughed humourlessly, "not so much shitty, chere, as demandin'. But he pays fuckin' well."

"So why _this_ shithole?" she asked him, and he could almost see the sceptical, upward arc of her eyebrow.

"Don't get me wrong. It ain't like Sinny ain't got a nice, fancy set-up. But he don't appreciate some of my dirty habits." His eyes rose to hers, and for some reason he couldn't help adding: "You know me, _chere_. I only come here to _indulge_."

It wasn't a lie – but he could tell from her expression exactly what she thought he meant, even if what he actually meant wasn't even close to what he knew she imagined.

Because truthfully he came here to indulge his _thoughts_ – the life he wanted to hide from Essex, a life he had begun to make with her a year, two years ago. A life where he had begun to be honest with himself. Where he could contemplate a future without Essex – where he could plan that life uninterrupted, without the distractions that came with being in Sinister's lair.

But she didn't have to know all this, and of course, the less she knew about his plan, about his motivations, the better.

Thankfully, before she could question him further, the phone pinged in his hand. He cursed quietly at the knowledge of what it was and turned away from her, flipped his message box open. It was Clarity, sending the first set of coordinates.

"Oh, so Ah'm a dirty habit now?" he heard her query tartly in the background, and he paced the room absently whilst he ran the coordinates through his sat nav app.

" _Non_ ," he answered absently. "You're a very _good_ one. My _only_ good one."

The sat nav centred in on a gas station several blocks down, the site of Essex's so-called distraction. It was only then that it seemed to become real to him. It was a densely populated area, and 8 a.m. was exactly the time it'd be at its busiest with the morning commuter rush.

If he'd tried to kid himself before that there weren't going to be any casualties in this before, he didn't bother now.

People were going to die.

They were going to die so she could live and he was committed to it.

 _Merde._

He sub-consciously ran through tomorrow's mission for about the fiftieth time that evening. He figured he could get there in about 10 minutes, if he legged it. There were two ways of playing it. Either do as Sinister had planned, and get there at 800 hours. Or, he could take his time here and make a break for it as soon as the shit hit the fan. The former meant creeping out on Rogue before she had the chance to wake up. (Not difficult). The latter meant lying in and potentially incurring Essex's wrath; but it also meant having the chance to say goodbye.

Goodbye.

Potentially forever.

Remy stopped pacing and turned to the window.

This was ridiculous.

He was being sentimental and illogical and it was foolish and dangerous, but…

He rested his elbows on the sill and gazed out into the blackness.

 _But if I don't pull dis off, I won't get another chance… She'll be gone and it'll be over. You get your life back. You get to walk away for real and not look back._

And he palmed his face with both hands, suppressing an involuntary shudder at the thought.

 _So make de most of dis, LeBeau. Stay as long as you can. If dis is it, take de risk. Say goodbye. Clarity thinks she's worth it…_

But it didn't really matter what Clarity thought and he knew it.

He looked up from his hands and struggled with himself.

 _Dis gettin' too damn complicated, LeBeau. You got a job t' do – you can't change dat now. Time t' step back, boy. You had your fun. Now it's time t' focus._

Focus.

Focus on something other than the fact that she was only a few paces away from him and still naked in his bed.

Okay.

So tomorrow he was going to betray her, and in the meantime he'd brought her up here with the cynical intention of fucking her (making love to her) before he gave her a reason to hate him again and everything went tits up. He didn't like that. He didn't like how guilty that made him feel. She deserved _something_. A concession of some sort. Something to make him feel he wasn't a complete ass.

She'd asked for his help.

He was ready to give her an answer now.

"You said you needed my help," he finally spoke to the window, his voice still heavy with all the weight of this responsibility, this weight he could hardly bear to shoulder. "So. What did you have in mind?"

She was silent a long moment, as if she hadn't expected him to extend her a helping hand at all – and it was only then that he realised just how cool he'd been playing things with her the past few hours.

"That's a hard question to answer," she spoke at last in a quiet voice. "Ah know what it is that Ah _don't_ need from you."

 _Hm. Now dis a different angle. Interestin'. You tryin' t' hook me, chere?_

He turned, looked at her expectantly.

"Go on."

It wasn't a hook. She was being honest. He could see it in her face. The crease of her brow, the way she looked down into her hands. It intrigued him even more.

"Ah need you _not_ to be on Essex's side," she finally said. His eyes darted to hers then, trying to read what she meant.

And he _thought_ he knew what she meant.

She trusted him enough to believe that he didn't _want_ to work for Sinister.

But she didn't trust him enough to believe that he would put Sinister's interests before her own.

That she mistrusted him enough to ask him such a thing genuinely surprised him.

Because he thought they were tight enough to trust one another completely. Forget all the games, all the posturing, all the power play. Forget all the toying. That was just part of the _fun_. When it came down to it, she _trusted_ him. More than anyone. Didn't she?

Unless…

And he frowned.

 _Unless she's seen de fact dat I'll betray her…_

It was a thought he couldn't bear to entertain; but he couldn't afford to lose it, not when he had no proof that she knew exactly what his game was and what he was doing. He crossed over to the bed again, sat beside her, and looked her right in the eye, trying, desperately, not to let his sudden fear show in the intensity of his gaze.

"You've _seen_ t'ings, haven't you," he murmured in a taut voice; and when she nodded he swore. "I _knew_ it. I _knew_ dis was all about those crazy Diaries…"

 _And how much d'you know, chere? How much are you aware of?_

The tortured train of questions was interrupted by the sound of his phone pinging again. He knew what it was – Clarity sending the second set of coordinates. He reached for the cell instinctively; but she'd pre-empted him, snatching it up and switching it off, throwing it over to the other end of the bed.

"Rouge…" he began with exasperation, but she glared at him, saying; "Listen to me, Remy. Ah don't need you t' _do_ anythin' for me, Ah don't even need you to believe any of this. Ah just need an ally. Ah need _you_. You're the one person Ah need more than anyone else, and if Ah don't have you…"

She halted, unable or unwilling to say the next words, and somehow he felt certain that she _didn't_ know, that she hadn't a clue that he was planning to sell her over to Essex in less than 12 hours, and that he was taking a hell of gambit for her sake, one he didn't even know he'd be able to pull off.

And that meant that the only reason she could be asking for his help was that she didn't trust him.

Not fully anyhow.

"I don't understand," he spoke softly. "I pick and choose my loyalties carefully, _chere_. I don't give out my trust willingly. But you've always had both. My loyalty _and_ my trust. Despite all de other shit," and he waved his hand as if they'd all just been a nuisance – her whoring, her absorption of him… "Do you even need to ask, Rogue?"

And the hesitation on her face showed him the answer very plainly.

It made him wonder what exactly she had seen to make her distrust him so much.

"What've you seen?" he asked her, this time quietly, gravely.

"It might not be the future, Remy," she insisted earnestly, the anxiety in her voice making his blood run cold. "It's only a _possibility_ …"

"I know how it works, Rogue," he interrupted her flatly. "What have you seen?"

She took a breath. And another. And he saw in her face just how much Destiny's visions had troubled – _frightened_ – her.

"Ah… Ah see you, Remy," she explained at last, spilling the words out in a rush as if they pained her. "You, with Sinister. You…Ah think you let him _kill_ me…"

She trailed off, and he stared at her. He stared at this woman he loved – yes, loved – and wondered how she could _believe_ such a thing could even be possible. He certainly couldn't see it. Yes, it was possible. It was _entirely_ possible that Essex could murder her, for any number of reasons. But that Remy could _let_ him… _that_ was inconceivable. Essex could certainly _attempt_ to take Rogue's life – he could even succeed – but he would have to get through Remy himself first. He'd already made up his mind about _that_. Rogue's life, before his own. Always.

"Dat ain't possible," he muttered after a long moment of silence, shaking his head with certainty. And:

"How do you _know_?" she asked with an earnestness that signalled to him that she believed his betrayal was at least _possible_ , if not inevitable. He set his lips.

"Do you really believe I could let anyone hurt you, Rogue?" he answered quietly, painfully aware of the sting that her implied distrust gave him.

"You don't know what the future could bring, Remy," she reasoned with him, her eyes wide, beguiling. "Or how your feelings could change. Just a moment could be all it takes…"

"After everyt'ing I've done for you," he cut across her, unable to entertain her words any longer, "After everyt'ing I've done for you, wit' Kincaid, wit' Guess… You t'ink it could be possible dat I could stand by and watch Essex _end_ you?"

There was passion in his words, and it threw her into silence. He saw the expression on her face flicker between doubt and reassurance. It amazed him that she still could not fully believe him. _He_ believed what he said, and he nearly always knew exactly when he was telling himself lies. He knew he was not now. He knew he was telling her the truth. The preservation of her life was one of the few givens in his own.

"Ah couldn't believe it either," she murmured after a moment, not once breaking eye contact with him. "But every day the dreams get clearer and clearer. You're on a trajectory, Remy. And Ah can't stop you. Ah've tried so hard to derail it. That's why Ah called you today. Ah figured if Ah told you everythin', Ah could stop it all in its tracks…"

So this was what it was.

She knew, even if she couldn't see, even if she couldn't understand.

Something inside her was showing her this path he'd sketched out so carefully for himself, this path to get back from Sinister what he needed and thus keep her safe. But what she didn't know was that this had nothing to do with him, or even Sinister. It was about _her_. He was walking this path for her sake. To prevent the thing that Destiny had shown him. Essex's blade in her heart and her blood on his hands and a world without this woman he loved.

Remy stood and ran his hand through his hair, the image distressing him more now that she was sitting there before him, telling him to stop doing the very thing that would keep her from harm.

But what if what she said was true? What if there was even half a chance…?

She reached out and clasped his free hand, perhaps seeing the sudden emotion on his face.

"Promise me, Remy," she begged him urgently. "Promise me you won't let this happen. Not for my sake, but for yours. Whatever hold Sinister has over you, you have to break it. Otherwise…"

She left the sentence unfinished, but he read enough in her tone to know what she meant. _Otherwise he'll just end up owning you forever._ No. What tied him to Sinister – it was unbreakable. But he had to believe that his bond with her was the stronger, because he had chosen her over Sinister every time.

"You don't understand, Rogue," he returned quietly, looking down at her. "What it is between me and Essex runs deeper than just blackmail, or even a sense of loyalty. It's coded into my DNA."

"Ah understand," she half-whispered, her fingers curling tighter round his own. "He made you. For a purpose you still don't know. But he doesn't _define_ you. He doesn't make you the man you are today. And just because he made you doesn't mean you're soulless, or bad or evil or wicked. You've proved that a thousand times over."

But it was never him who had proved it, and he knew it.

"Have I?" he murmured, hopeless, helpless – wishing that he could trust himself as much as she appeared to.

She saw his look and took his hand, the one she still held, and placed it upon her other cheek. And he saw that he had changed something; that somehow he had made her believe him. And it hurt, because he knew that, come tomorrow, she'd just end up believing he'd lied to her again, when he'd meant every word he'd said.

It nearly broke his heart.

"Come back to me, Remy," she whispered. "Come back to _us_. We need you, Remy. To end the Sentinel's rule, to end the killing…"

He laughed softly, shaking his head. The promise of paradise couldn't sway him from his trajectory; only she had that power, and she still didn't see it.

"And you still believe dat, _chere_?" he questioned her incredulously. "Even after Rachel abandoned us? Destiny was right. She _was_ a saviour. Just not for _us_. She changed the past… But it didn't change our future. She did de sensible t'ing. She escaped into de Timestream. Accept it, Rogue. Dere's no way we can change anyt'ing now."

"So that's what this is all about, Remy? Stayin' with Essex is _easier_ than…"

"Savin' de world? Absolutely."

His eyes met hers without wavering. And yet again here they were – at a stalemate. This was a different form of selfishness, and it was one he wasn't afraid to let her see. He didn't care about the world. It had never cared about him. He cared about the fact that _she_ was in it. He cared about it because she was the one thing that made it that little bit more bearable.

She pursed her lips, as though knowing that this was one battle she couldn't win. And he was glad of that.

 _Just trust me, chere. I'll see you right._

He leaned forward and kissed her lips, no passion, just an attempt to comfort her and reassure her that everything was going to be all right. He didn't know if he had succeeded. When he drew away her face was still caught in something of a confused frown; but she slid in under the covers, and, knowing nothing more would be said, he went and retrieved his phone from the other end of the bed.

He switched it on, watched the start up screen absently.

 _Trust me, Anna_ , he thought quietly, sincerely. _Trust me, cherie. Teach me to trust myself._

The message contained the second set of coordinates from Clarity. They pointed to a closed subway station not far from the gas stop where Sinister's Marauders were poised to strike.

That's where the deal would be done, where the exchange would be made.

Rogue for his full powers, his full potential.

His full powers for her life.

He circled the bed, set the phone down on the nightstand, and looked down at her lying there on her side, her back to him. He still hadn't completely decided how he wanted to end this between them tomorrow.

Sneak out early, or lie in and say goodbye.

He knew which way he was leaning, but it was neither wise nor practical.

But nothing was, when it came to her. Nor did it have any reason to be.

He slid in beside her under the covers, sensing in her a resignation, a sadness. She was hurting and he somehow knew that he was the cause of it, and it smarted. He wished she could _believe_ that he loved her even if he'd never given her a real reason to do so. He wished he could be 100% honest with her even if he knew it could make things ten times worse than things already stood.

He couldn't say any of these things. He couldn't be honest, and he didn't know how to begin to tell her that he loved her.

So instead he was honest in the only way he knew how.

He encircled her from behind, pressed a kiss into the dip of her shoulder, nestled his face against her neck. He held her like he had back in the safe house, in the summer house, in their little room back in Chicago. He held her like a man holds a woman when they both hold equal stakes in this thing, this thing called _love_ and this thing called _each other_ and this thing called _you and me and nothing else besides,_ just simple and uncomplicated _together._

He held her and he wished, he hoped, he prayed it wouldn't be the last time, that the thing that held them together was strong enough to weather the storm he knew would sweep in come the morning.

 _-_ oOo-

Continued in chapter 4.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** Characters belong to Marvel. I think.

 **Warning:** Sex, language.

 **A/N:** Just wanted to thank everyone who voted for _House of Cards_ in the Fanatic Fanfiction Awards. I got through the second round of voting, which I was so surprised and grateful for. Thank you so much! Today is the last day of voting before the winners are announced. If you still feel so inclined, please do vote again for my story! I'm not expecting to win, but if I do, it will be gifts all round! ;)

Please enjoy the last chapter of this short, and look out for more from me on the HoC universe... ;)

-Ludi x

 **EDIT 21-06-2015:** I realised that I had uploaded my tracked changes document which screwed up this chapter entirely. I'm re-uploading the proper document now, so hopefully things make more sense. Sorry about that! ^^;

* * *

 **The Other Side of Dance**

 **. IV .**

Goodbye.

 _Goodbye._

Fuck goodbyes.

Remy stared up at the pillar of sunlight on the ceiling, a thin sliver of milky sunshine sliding in through the chink in his curtains.

He could've pretended she wasn't even there, if it wasn't for the light sound of her breathing, the scent of her skin and her hair.

The minute hand was inching towards eight O'clock, and he was still lying there, and now the decision had pretty much been made by default.

He considered making this worth it. He considered waking her up and taking everything he could from her before running out on her again. The memory of the previous night tantalised him like nothing else. To have that again, to have _her_ again, if only to magic away this horrible dread inside him…

He swivelled onto his side and looked down into her face. He murmured her name.

 _Anna_.

He prayed for her to wake up.

He prayed for her to sleep.

He prayed for her to give him a reason to make love to her again.

He prayed for her to give him a reason not to take advantage of her and ruin everything again.

Her eyelids flickered, but otherwise she didn't stir.

He lay back down beside her and listened to her breathe.

The minute hand slipped past eight O'clock and he waited.

He waited for this sword to fall with the sick expectation that it would sever him from her forever.

 _C'mon_ , he thought. _It'll be better dis way. Let it fall. Gimme dis openin'. Gimme dis reason to walk outta her life for good. Take me outta dis. Please._

Because he didn't have to be here. He didn't have to be tied down to Essex. If he could walk away from her, he could walk away from Essex too. Clarity could be free. He could wake up in the bed of some random woman without the pall of his nightmares upon him, without her name on lips. Back to New York. Back to Nawlins. Back to seventeen again. Back to Belle…

Back to the circle of nightmares…

Eyes on the clock again.

Quarter past eight already.

He turned and wound a lone, brown curl round his finger, tugged on it gently.

 _Wake up…_

 _Take it away…_

 _I love you…_

She didn't move and he sucked in a shallow breath, sank onto his back once more.

 _I love you…_

 _No…_

 _Stop…_

 _I love you…_

 _Dis ain't me. It ain't me._

 _But I love you…_

He closed his eyes, tried to push it all away, and then…

 _KABOOOOOOOOM!_

He was up about a split second before Rogue was, sweeping aside the covers with his heart crashing sickly in his stomach as he hurried to the window and yanked it open. He knew exactly which direction to look in, and he knew exactly what he would find.

A thick plume of oily black smoke, curling over the horizon.

" _Merde_ ," he muttered, knowing instinctively that more people had died and he alone could've prevented it.

"What?" he heard her say sharply behind him. "Is it the Sentinels?"

" _Non_ ," he replied in an undertone. "Not de Sentinels."

There was the sound of her clambering out of the bed, of scrambling into her underwear.

"Then _what_?" she insisted impatiently, coming to join him by the window. She looked out and gaped. He gazed at her out of the corner of his eye, his heart in his throat, gauging her reaction. A flash of horror was followed by a glint of steel. Her lips went hard.

"Bomb?" she queried.

And, "possible," he said, non-committal.

She half turned to him, about to speak, when both their phones pinged. Her eyes darted to his and in that second he knew exactly what she was sensing – that somehow he was involved in this and that nothing about this could be good.

He turned away from her to retrieve his phone before he had to stand that look for much longer.

It was Essex, demanding he call.

He speed-dialled his boss' number, just as another _BOOOOOM_ shook the room.

" _Where_ –" Essex started, as Remy grabbed his pants and pulled them on one-handed, paying as little attention as he could to Sinister's incoherent blaspheming.

"I'm on it," was all he said when there was pause enough to get a word in edgeways; he ended the call, threw the phone on the bed and pulled his shirt over his head. He heard Rogue shooting panicked sentences to who he presumed was Logan over the other side of the room, and he felt bad. He felt bad for springing this on her, but it was what it was. He had a job to do now. Already the adrenaline was pumping through his veins. It was a kind of torture to see her like this, but it was better than the torture of _not_ seeing her once all this shit got underway.

Which it was already, technically.

He was dressed before she was, finally shrugging on his trench coat just as she was about to pull her boots on. He was gonna wait. He was gonna wait, goddammit.

" _What_ is goin' on?" she asked him helplessly, breathlessly, and he couldn't help but chuckle as the room juddered under the force of another explosion and he caught his lighter just as it fell off the edge of the nightstand.

"My next paycheck, dat's what," he quipped, and she stood there and looked at him with an expression of such confused misgiving that his heart sank and his heart soared, and he knew, he _knew_ , that she wouldn't disappoint him.

God, he loved her.

Now more than ever.

He crossed the room, took her face in his hands and kissed her.

It was a way of saying goodbye, a way of stopping her from asking any more questions.

But it had never been her intention to ask any. He knew that when her hands came up, her fingers sliding through his hair, holding him closer. All she'd wanted was exactly the same as him. Just a goodbye.

He clung to her, knowing how little time they both had; and he couldn't allow himself to regret it when the next explosion interrupted their embrace and drew them apart reluctantly. He'd been granted more time with her than he could have expected or asked for.

He caught his breath, caressed her cheek, murmured, "See you on de other side, _chere_."

Without another word, he turned, he left.

He turned away from her, knowing what he was risking, but knowing, too, that he couldn't turn back.

Not even when she called out his name, not even when she gave him that choice.

 _-_ oOo-

Ten minutes later and he was there.

Loitering in an alley, tuning out the sound of screams and the stench of burning gasoline.

He scanned the crowds with only one thing on his mind – that familiar flash of white in cinnamon-coloured hair, the effortless turn of her gait, the way it could turn eyes in a sea full of people.

He had to focus on it.

If he didn't all he'd have left was this guilt and he was afraid he'd run a mile.

And he was already committed.

Falling down this chasm, scrabbling desperately at the sides for purchase.

Remy stretched the fingers inside his cut-off gloves, feeling the leather resist. The adrenaline was pumping so hard in him, he could feel his power surging right beneath his skin. He needed something to channel all this _shit_ out on, and the fact that this was all his fault wasn't helping none. In fact, it was making it about a thousand times _worse_.

He squatted in the shadows, eyes flickering in the glow of the gas-fuelled fire. He saw them all: some time comrades, some time friends. He saw some of them fall, wounded. He saw them suffer because of him.

And he saw _her_ there, _knowing_ that it was all because of him. Knowing that he'd had _something_ to do with it.

He swallowed, turned away, intending to head for the subway, when –

 _KABOOOOOOM!_

The gas station spewed out its guts.

He was lifted off his feet by the blast, sailing a few metres before being dumped, unceremoniously, in the dust and the grit of the rubble-filled street, his ears ringing painfully.

He pushed himself up, spitting out dirt; looking over his shoulder, he caught sight of her hair, her body, in the smoke, a swirl of movement that told him _she's alive_ … and then she was gone, disappeared behind the broken husk of a now-battered car.

Remy shuffled to his feet, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth, half grinning, half grimacing as he headed back for the subway.

 _Shit, my legs are shot…_

 _Dieu, she's alive…_

He swivelled round, eyes on the car, jogging backwards, thinking, _come out, chere…_

And out she came, ducking into the very same alley he'd just snuck out of.

He wet his lips, tasting blood again, and turned back, seeing the cordoned off subway entrance about a hundred yards from him… He flicked another glance over his shoulder, and his view of her was obscured by a convoy of emergency services whipping past in a blaze of blue and white and red… And he skidded to a stop outside the subway entrance, wiping at the corner of his mouth again as the vehicles screeched past, and then there she was again, crouching in the alleyway, rising slowly to her feet, hesitating, getting ready to run…

 _Dis way, chere,_ he whispered in his mind.

And she looked right at him, just as if she'd heard him.

Their eyes locked; her lips parted; he smiled.

He turned and hurdled over the construction signs into the depths of the subway, knowing instinctively that she would follow.

 _-_ oOo-

He had no idea where he was, but he had a fair idea of how to work this place.

Subway stations were all pretty much the same once you'd been in a couple, and even though this particular one was currently under renovation, he was about as familiar with his surroundings as he could be.

He knew what he was going to do, and that was trap her down her for as long as he could. He couldn't risk her losing her life above ground, and he had to keep her safe until Essex was there to take possession of his prize.

He was going to make damned sure she was going to be as okay as she could be after that too, but he didn't have time to think about that now.

He ran through the entrance-way, slapping the sides of the frame with both hands, _slap slap_ , setting a charge into the concrete frame that he hoped would last long enough to see her through it first. Then he sprinted through the ticket hall, knowing she would be hot on his tail, jumping over the barriers and charging the gates as he did so – just enough of a charge, he hoped, to get her attention. He swung in against the escalator wall, catching his racing, feeling a grim sense of satisfaction at his handiwork. This whole set-up was _fucked_ , but he couldn't help feeling pride in the fact that whatever he did, he did it well, even under duress. And even when it involved betraying _her_.

 _But she'll be safer like dis…_

He heard her footsteps; boot soles slapping on unwashed tile as she ran in and then came to a halt. He didn't dare risk a peek. The angle he was at, she was sure to see him if he poked his head out, and that wouldn't be good. He needed her hooked. Enticed. Exasperated enough to chase him down.

She had gone quiet, was obviously scoping out the area. Then he heard the slight scuffle of her jumping over the ticket gates and he knew it wouldn't be long…

He hazarded a step down the escalator, then another, just as he heard the whine of the charge start to pick up volume and _KABOOOM!_ The charged gate had exploded.

He was already halfway down the unmoving escalator when he heard her swearing behind him; he half-stopped when he heard her again, this time louder, calling out to him in the sweetest Southern lilt he'd ever heard her use, sickly sweet enough for him to know that every word was dripping with venomous sarcasm.

"Remy? Where are yah, sugah? Why dontcha come out t' play, darlin'?"

His lips twisted again to hear it. He had her now. She was pissed.

He skipped the last few steps at full speed and rounded the corner at the bottom; she wasn't far behind. He'd just managed to secret himself behind one of the hefty pillars lining the passengers' thoroughfare when he heard her skid right in after him.

Remy held his breath, listening to her footfalls, gauging her direction, her gait, her move. He heard her try a door handle, then – _BAM!_ – it was the sound of one of his own charges blasting the door open, soon followed by the sound of her swearing when she found he wasn't inside. She was angry, frustrated. She wanted answers and she wasn't in the mood to beat around the bush finding them. He read it all in her presence.

"Ah'm here, Cajun!" Her voice echoed like barely thawed icicles down the corridor. "So why don't you come out and tell me straight what it is you want?"

He chewed on his lip, considering. She wasn't in the mood for this song and dance he was leading her on, that was for sure. There was every possibility she could walk away from him in disgust. But if he could get her _mad_ enough…

He heard her turn to go, and it was then that he made his decision. He snapped out of his hiding place noisily and slid behind the next pillar over, whipping out a card as he did so.

Silence.

He held his breath, charged the card slowly.

"Dontcha think you're too old t' be playin' games now, swamp rat?" she called out irately, signalling exactly where she was, and he spun a card out in her direction, moving as he did so, right back to the pillar he'd left before as he heard the missile connect with solid concrete and explode with a _CRASH!_

It wasn't enough to total whatever it had hit, but it was more than enough to make a statement and grab her attention.

"Now that was just half-assed, Cajun!" her voice sailed over to him mockingly, and he chuckled mirthlessly to himself, swinging back round to the other pillar, calling back; "It's not like you're tryin' hard neither, _chere_!" letting her know exactly where he was before zipping into a corridor branching out to his right.

"Ah would be if Ah knew you weren't just playin' games!" came her acid reply, and he heard her release an energy bolt – probably psionic-based, judging from the way it fizzled out – right in the space he'd just vacated.

He swivelled round mid-step, announcing pointedly:

"No games, _chere_."

She didn't even bother to reply this time, and he whipped back round, slipping in neatly behind some old billboards just as she entered the hallway, hot on his tail.

He watched her watch out for him. Her boots and jacket were scuffed and scorched, her eyes were blazing, her hair was wild. Oh, he definitely had her mad now. There was no way she was going to walk out on this little trap now, and a part of him sank at the realisation. No turning back now. He was committed 100% to giving her over to Essex. _Shit_.

And that was when he caught sight of the exit, right at the same time as she did.

It was one variable he hadn't planned for, hadn't expected, and it was exactly what he _didn't_ need. He knew she'd go for it even before she did, and even as she turned to make a break for it he had stepped out right behind her, and it had never been his intent to hurt her, it had never even been his intent to lay a finger on her, but it was desperation that took him now, desperation that made him reach out and grasp her by the shoulders and twist her to the side, throwing her to the floor with a horrible voice ringing in his ears, telling him _he can't let her get back up topside, he_ can't _let her out of his sight, not even for one moment…_

She hit the floor hard, her back slapping cold tile, smacking the wind out of her, and she coughed and spluttered, momentarily stunned by his attack; and his first mistake was concern for her – he stepped in beside her to make sure she was okay, and before he knew it she was right as rain again, tackling his legs right out from under him, bringing him to the ground before he even had a moment to appreciate what had happened.

To her credit, she didn't waste any more time on him. She got to her feet and ran for the exit.

 _Shit!_

Again that cold surge of desperation took him, driving him back onto his legs and into hot pursuit. He'd gained on her in a matter of seconds, and it was strange, strange how he ceased to think, how this one objective had taken him, body, mind and soul – he didn't need to formulate a movement – everything was automatic – he wouldn't, _couldn't_ lose her now, not under _any_ circumstance, not now, not after all this, all this waiting, this planning, this longing, this _fear_ … …

He caught her by the jacket and spun her round to face him, only just clocking the rage on her pale face as he went to grab her and _hold her still_ , but she was having none of it – she dodged his arm neatly, grasped onto it with her talons, and the next moment she'd flung him over her shoulders and he was sailing into a stack of old billboards.

He landed hard, but hardly painfully – the adrenaline in him was thrumming now, as it always did in a fight, but he felt no exhilaration, only the grinding momentum that drove him, the knowledge of what was really at stake. He was back on his feet again in mere moments, using the cloud of dust from his landing as a smoke screen, knowing instinctively that she would come after him now – that he'd pissed her off enough to have her full attention.

It was small comfort.

There was a row of vending machines, and he backed away behind them, watching her through the gaps between them, trying to get just the right angle on her, trying to ignore the fact that she was as beautiful and fierce as a wildcat and he was asking for all sorts of trouble.

To his surprise, she followed his trail almost exactly. He'd only just managed to get behind his new hiding place when her boot heel came whizzing in round the corner, missing him by mere inches and smashing into the nearest machine. It creaked, wobbled and finally toppled over, blowing his cover completely.

"So what is this about, Remy?" she growled at him fiercely, her hands bunched at her sides. "You bringin' me down here to keep me away from the others?! From Sinister?!"

" _Maybe_ ," he murmured, backing away from her slowly, wondering at the ease with which she had managed to locate him, at her increased dexterity… He knew she was going to give him a run for his money and that worried him. He knew it was entirely possible that she was mad enough now to beat him to a pulp, and the idea that he could lose sight of her was not one that bore thinking about.

As it was he was running out of space to manoeuvre, and being backed into a corner was never a good place to be. On instinct he ducked between the last two remaining vending machines; and it was almost as if she'd anticipated the move. In a trice a well-placed kick had sent his cover tumbling to the ground, and he skipped back, out of its way, thinking, _how de hell did she get so damn fast!_ as she growled in frustration, "Just. Stand. _Still_."

She was almost crackling with anger, so terrifyingly beautiful that he if he was a lesser man he would've fallen to his knees before her, were it not for the fact that he suddenly saw – in a cold, numb moment of realisation – that the reason she'd got that fast, that she knew all his moves exactly as they were about to happen – was that she was _syncing_ with him. With his _psyche_.

He didn't have time to regret that fact, nor even to berate her for it, because the next moment – just as he was moving away again – she had grasped onto the tails of his trenchcoat and _charged_ the fucking thing.

It was a lack of control she hadn't expected – and even though _he_ had hardly expected it himself, he knew exactly what to do.

He'd accidentally charged enough things in his life after all, back when he'd been a pup and had been unable to control his powers.

He whipped off his coat faster than lightning and it was second nature – he had a weapon now and he was going to use it to _end_ this foolishness.

Without even thinking he'd thrown the glowing trench into the air, right in her direction, knowing the force of the blast would knock her to the ground and…

 _KA-BOOM!_

She hit the ground in a snowstorm of torn and shredded leather, the remnants of his coat flittering about her as she coughed and retched against the unexpected attack.

And _fuckin' finally_. He had her where he wanted her. He had back some semblance of hard-won control.

He stepped in either side of her, said sardonically:

"You make it so damn easy, _chere_."

She was dazed, but not dazed enough to be compliant. He almost misjudged her; she scooted backward, trying to get out from under him and –

– he brought his boot down on her chest, pinning her there with perhaps a little more force than he'd first intended.

"Uh-uh, _chere_ ," he lilted softly, dangerously. "I don't t'ink so. You're stayin' right here."

He lifted his boot, bent down towards her, not surprised to see that her eyes were darting this way and that, searching desperately for an escape route that was nowhere to be found.

"Still lookin' for a way out, Rogue?" he mused, bringing his face close in to hers, close enough to catch her scent. "How d'you reckon I can keep you here, _chere_ , right where I need you to be?"

He couldn't help himself.

He couldn't.

She was mad at him, and he was pretty mad at her, but it didn't matter.

Hell, she was going to be fucking _pissed_ at him whenever Essex made his entrance, and by the time _that_ happened, well… he'd be in the doghouse and he knew he'd deserve it.

She'd hate him.

And he wanted to have just a few more moments with her, knowing what it was like without her hating him.

Knowing what it was like to have her love.

Selfishness again.

He looked down into her face and there was a moment, a split second of hesitation.

Her eyes locked onto his, tempered steel and unguarded, uncomplicated trust.

Despite everything he'd just put her through.

And it made up his mind.

He folded his body of her hers, locking her beneath him, pinning her down, keeping her from running away again; and the previous night came flooding back again as he settled into her and she settled against him, two puzzle pieces slotting effortlessly together.

Her lips parted.

An unwitting invitation.

She couldn't help it, just like he couldn't.

Just like that, all the anger gone from her. All the anger gone from him. No reason left to fight. He was both amused and _be_ mused by it. How simple it all seemed.

She stared up at him with those lips parted, just as she had the night before. Sweet harmony.

"Well, _chere_ ," he found himself cooing softly, "dis seems kinda familiar now, don't it?"

Her eyes flickered, vacillating between anger and desire, desire winning out. But, Rogue being Rogue, she wasn't about to give in without a little resistance first, and he knew it. There was still the faintest glint of mettle in her gaze as she said in a voice that was meant to be tart but came out like honey:

"If this is some ploy to get me away from the others when they need me, so help me God, Remy…"

He paused; he frowned.

Here he was, thinking of this in terms of _them_ , and she was thinking about it in terms of _everyone else_.

It was the one thing that truly set them apart, and to be honest it was a bona fide mood-killer.

"Logan will be fine, _chere_ ," he muttered, trying not to sound jealous. "Don't worry."

He shifted slightly, needing to get this ride back on track; he slipped his knee between her legs, a move that never failed to _get_ , and she responded just like he knew she would, her breath coming choppy and laboured from those sweet cherry lips that he wanted so badly to kiss.

"You don't need t' do this, Remy," she struggled to articulate the words; but he barely heard her, mesmerised as he was by the promise of her mouth.

"Do what?" he murmured back, and she whispered:

" _Protect_ me."

Again a pinprick of guilt stabbed him, because she thought he had brought her here to keep her safe.

And he had.

He _had_.

 _Right?_

His eyes flickered, daring to meet hers, so open, so honest. She _trusted_ him. _Fool!_ And he… he was all the more foolish in that her trust demanded his own. He couldn't help but tell her so.

"I'm a fool, Rogue," he murmured with real passion. "I can't trust you to take care of yourself. If anyt'ing happened to you, I'd never be able to forgive myself if I hadn't done everyt'ing in my power to keep you safe first."

And it wasn't a ruse. There was no cynicism in his words. He meant them, and she melted like butter to hear him say them.

"Ah need to help the others," she insisted in a last ditch attempt at self-preservation, and –

"And I need you to stay right here," he returned.

She looked at him; he looked at her. Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. His heart was thudding painfully in his chest, knowing as he did that it was impossible for her to resist him, and impossible for him to resist her, and that they were both committed to this farce. Except that he knew where this was leading. And she _didn't._

"Come back to us, Remy," she whispered, and her gaze was so full of faith in him that it almost choked him to see it. "Come back to _me_."

 _Non, non, non, non non…_

"I _am_ wit' you, _chere_."

 _Dontcha do dis t' me…_

"That's not what Ah mean, and you know it. You shouldn't be with Sinister, you're not one of _them_ …"

 _I ain't watcha think I am…_

She was killing him, killing him with all this sweetness and this trust, and he leaned forward, touched his nose to hers and whispered, "Shhh;" and before she could reply, before she could protest, his mouth was on hers, finally, _finally_ …

He didn't think; didn't think, as he had been thinking all night and all morning now, how he was going to live without this, how he was going to survive a life without knowing what it was to hold her like this, with their bodies _this close…_

And that was when he felt her nails dig into his back.

His hissed as their kiss broke, and she took the moment of distraction to roll them both over – he hadn't been prepared for it, hadn't braced himself for it – the back of his head slapped the cold tile floor and for a moment he saw stars.

"You are some kinda fuckin' bastard, Cajun," he heard her snarl, her hands holding his wrists either side of him with an iron grip. "If you wanted to keep me outta this goddamn battle with the Marauders, you coulda gone the whole fuckin' hog and _prevented_ it from happenin' in the first place!"

He couldn't help a bitter smile crossing his face at the suggestion. After all the months of careful planning and subterfuge, if only, _if only_ it had been that easy.

"You t'ink I hold dat kinda leverage wit' Sinny?" he rasped sarcastically. "You t'ink I give dat much of a damn about Logan and the rest of his Brady bunch?"

"They probably think Ah'm dead right now!" she snapped acidly at him and he laughed humourlessly.

"Let dem t'ink it, _chere_. I'm not done yet. I still want you somet'ing bad… You know it, Rogue. You've seen it in my memories, in my head… I can't get enough of you…"

It was torture to waste any more words on this moment. So he did what he always did when he was tired of the verbal fencing, and that was use his body. He moved against her, just _so_ ; and she gave a wisp of a whimper that was so goddamn sexy that it almost, _almost,_ made up for all this shit. She wasn't buying it though – he knew she wasn't stupid enough to. He saw her grit her teeth against all his insinuation, felt the grip of her hands on his wrists tighten.

"Ah ain't come down here t' make out with you, Cajun," she seethed, her anger piqued again, and if he could just prod her a little further, if he could just push that button enough to get her to cloud her own judgement… …

"Shame," he threw at her gruffly, trying to focus out the pain searing through his wrists. "I kinda like it when you go all BDSM on me…"

He knew he'd done it. Knew he'd said exactly the thing to get under her skin.

With a feline growl she went for his throat, and as soon as her hands left his wrists, he'd whipped his arms out and slapped them away, slamming his palms into her shoulders and twisting her right back over onto the hard, tiled floor with a heavy _smack_.

She blinked.

It wasn't just the surprise of his attack – it was more the fact that he had her body pinned with his own and somehow – _somehow_ – his thighs were locked round her hips, and he was pressed up against her pretty much as intimately as it could get when they both had all their clothes on.

A heavy breath whistled out from between his teeth as all the intoxicating sweetness of the night before came flooding back into his mind – traitorous thoughts that, up till now, he'd been trying desperately to push away.

His eyes locked onto hers and he could see, from the parting of her lips and the clouding of her gaze, just how much she was trying to deny the exact same recollections.

Most other women would have caved.

But he knew she was stronger than that and he knew that she wouldn't.

"Ah am so _done_ with this, Remy LeBeau," she fumed with a steely resolve that only partly masked whatever it was that was roiling underneath. "If yah think this is what Ah want, you are sorely mistaken. Ah'm gonna ask you nice now – _let me go_."

Her body was as rigid as it could get underneath his, and it was another kind of torture not to have her yield to him.

"Funny," he couldn't help but mutter. "Dat wasn't what you were sayin' last night…"

The look she shot at him was pure thunder.

"Last night is the _only_ reason Ah ain't kickin' your fuckin' ass right now," she snarled like a wild thing. Her thigh gave an involuntary twitch against his and it was like a fucking aphrodisiac – he could hardly bare to ignore this one insignificant token of inevitable surrender.

"I kinda figured, _chere_ ," he muttered almost incoherently. Because somewhere beneath it all, the inner mechanisms of his mind were doing a quick calculation: Sinny would be here any minute now, and he _had_ to keep her down here, and he didn't _want_ to fight… and besides all that he couldn't stand the thought of handing her over to that monster without a final kiss…

So he dipped his face within an inch of hers.

"Sorry, but I ain't gonna letcha get back up topside and get yourself fuckin' killed. And I'd rather not beat you t' a pulp to _keep_ you here. So how else you t'ink I'm gonna distract you, huh?"

He didn't wait for her to answer – his mouth had recaptured hers again almost on the tailend of his own sentence, and it was like all the fight just suddenly bled out of her at the touch of his lips – her body melted, her arms came up around him, her legs wrapped round his hips, her kiss was just as hungry as his own and _Essex had to be here right now, he had to be coming any minute now_ …

 _Fuck it_. He didn't care.

He was beyond desperate, beyond anything but the rash desire to hold onto this one little nugget of warmth and joy and unconditional _love_ , this one thing he knew he might never get back after today, and he didn't care what Essex thought if he _did_ see them, not caring if he walked right in on them whilst he stripped her naked and had wild, passionate sex with her right there and then, because he had no doubt that _that_ was what this was going to amount to, the way their bodies were _singing_ right now and—

 _BOOOOOM!_

The room shook, and he didn't have time to curse the interruption; Rogue had already torn her mouth away from his, saying breathlessly, "What the—?"

And _BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!_ went the room again, light fixtures swinging, dust and plaster shifting from the walls and the ceilings. Remy saw it in Rogue's face; the realisation of what it was causing this new ruckus topside. She scrambled to her feet as he tried desperately to breathe, to fight back the sweet agony of his arousal; he propped himself up on his elbows, watching the horror, the dread in her eyes as it dawned upon her…

" _Sentinels_ ," she hissed, and Rogue being Rogue, he knew exactly what would come out of her mouth next… "We haveta help the others!"

She was about to go, run right out of there and leave and he knew, at all costs, that he couldn't let her out of his sight. Instinct made him reach out and snatch her hand in his, made him call out in a voice that was far too sharp, far too urgent, "No, Rogue!"

She barely heard him, shaking off his grip in a single action; but he jumped to his feet, put himself in her way and she glared at him heatedly, saying, "Are yah crazy, Remy? They _need_ us up there!"

She had already half turned to leave again and he whipped out a hand, caught her by her upper arm, forced her to turn and face him.

"And I need you. Don't go, Rogue."

He knew he was giving himself away. He knew his voice was laced with desperation, and he knew she could hear it. He knew it all, but he couldn't let her out of this place. It wasn't so much that he was afraid she'd escape Essex's clutches. It was the fact that if she went topside, she'd be risking her life. She was safer here. With him. With Essex. She was safer if _he_ was there to supervise the handover. He didn't trust Essex with her alone. _He_ had to be there. This was the only control he had over this mess. Take that away and he knew – he just _knew_ – he would lose it.

Hell.

He was barely on the point of losing it now.

She could sense it radiating from him.

"What is it, Remy?" she asked, quiet, controlled; and there it was, all mistrust she'd been fighting to put aside because she loved him. "What have you done?"

And there it was too. Everything was _shitty_ between them again.

He couldn't bear it. He drew her in closer.

"Not'ing," he murmured, but it was a lie and she knew it.

" _You_ did this…" she accused him, and again it was like a lance through him, that she thought him capable of being responsible for all this when really, he was only _complicit_ in it, and that was bad enough.

" _Non_." He shook his head with conviction and willed her to believe him when he knew there wasn't a single reason for her to. And she looked up at him, so hurt and wounded and beautiful, this wonderful edifice of trust she had built for him crumbling in a single moment he had known to expect but had hoped against hope would never happen.

"Ah don't believe you really know _which_ side of the fence you're on, do you, Remy," she spoke in an undertone, and he managed to hold her gaze, because he _knew_ the answer to this question, it was the _only_ thing he was sure of in the face of all this shit…

"I know exactly whose side I'm on, Anna," he murmured with meaningful intensity.

 _Yours, Anna. Always._

But he didn't have the luxury of impressing the truth upon her, that _there was only one person whose side he was on and that was hers_ , because at that very moment, Sinister arrived.

He watched her. Saw the betrayal unravel, absolute and complete, on her face. And despite _knowing_ it would come to this, despite knowing _exactly_ how it would be… It was agony to him. Agony to know that all the trust he had helped her so carefully build in him had come crashing to the ground in that single moment.

How he stopped himself from bringing the pitiful charade to an end right there and then he would never know.

"Well done, LeBeau," Essex was congratulating him with that same old thin sliver of smile as he walked towards the two of them, Rogue paralysed with sick horror, Remy standing stock still with his hand still on her arm, feeling her suppress a shudder that he fought to quell with his embrace. Essex stopped within a couple of metres of them, that smile far too full of mirth for Remy's liking.

"I would've allowed you your fun," the monster continued sardonically, and Remy realised just how much he must've witnessed of his cosy little 'moment' with Rogue. "But as you can see, things have become a little… _inconvenient_ outside."

The expression on Rogue's face told Remy that the full scale of this whole thing had slowly dawned on her. From the sudden coldness in her eyes he saw that she realised that it had been a set-up of the most cynical kind. Right from the moment at the pier, he'd been leading her on a song and dance. The rendezvous, the power play, the sex, the explosion, the Sentinels – it had all been a ruse. A ploy, to get her here, where Sinister could finally lay claim to her.

He wanted to tell her, _no, it wasn't._ Up till now, he'd meant everything. It hadn't been a set up, not in the way she thought it was. Up to this very moment, _everything_ had been from him. He'd been playing on his own terms. _Not Essex's_.

But he couldn't tell her that.

He couldn't tell her without fucking this all up and endangering her life for _real_.

She glanced back over her shoulder, and this time there was no ice there. Only hurt, only regret that she'd allowed herself to be so deceived.

"So this is your way of 'protecting' me, Remy," she levelled at him with quiet bitterness, and he pressed his lips together, said nothing. It was the only way of dealing with this, of preventing himself from falling to bits right there in front of the two people he _couldn't_ give himself away to.

Essex chucked softly.

"Ah, come now, my dear, you shouldn't blame him," he spoke up mockingly. "After all, the only thing Mr. LeBeau here knows how to protect is an investment. And look at it this way. You're much safer down here with us than you are up there."

As if on cue the room rocked under the slow, thundering _booooom_ of the Sentinels overhead; a sheet of plaster shook loose from the ceiling, crashing onto the ground between them. Remy knew Rogue was going to make a move even before she did – he reached out and grabbed her utility belt just as she was making a dash for it, and, so help him God, he charged the damn thing. It was the only thing, short of knocking her flat out, that would keep her from running, or from _trying_ to, leastways. And if she tried too hard… well, Essex wouldn't like that at all. It would put her in danger. And he needed her _safe_.

She froze in place, shock widening her eyes as she looked back over her shoulder at him – and this time he saw there was real ice there.

"You wouldn't _dare_ …" she rasped at him; but he shook his head, only daring to speak now, when he knew it would be the truth: "You're stayin' here, _chere_. Sorry. I don't wanna hurt you, but I will if I have to. It's better for us both if you just play along and don't try anyt'ing."

"Yes, stay, play along," Sinister intoned mellifluously, finally moving to cross the space between them. "Do as he says, and you won't be harmed, Rogue. And I'd rather you _weren't_ harmed, despite what you may think."

Remy was proud of her when she actually _did_ stay put; he wouldn't have put it past her to try and figure some other way out.

"What do you want from me?" she asked instead, her voice nevertheless laced with defiance.

"What do you think?" Essex returned in a voice like velvet. "I want only _you_ , my dear."

"So you can experiment on me?" she threw back with disdain, but he only laughed.

"Experiment? No, merely to _collect_ you, my dear. I am, after all, a collector. Of mutants." "That's not what Ah remember," she retorted, low, accusatory. "Ah saw them, y'know. Years back, when Ah was clearin' out one of your labs with the X-Men… All those people you were usin' as test subjects… _They_ were mutants, weren't they. At least, some of them _used_ to be. The rest were just body parts in jars… Yeah, you're a collector all right. Of a sick, twisted, _perverse_ freak show!"

Sinister laughed.

" _Them?!_ " he exclaimed incredulously, as if he couldn't quite believe her words. " _They_ were not worthy to be a part of my collection! They were mere worms, lab rats, undeserving of the X-gene that they had been blessed with. No! The _X-Men_ were _worthy_ additions to my collection. Sadly, most of them were eliminated forever by those simpering government fools, but enough remained in order for me to carry out my grand project. Oh, I collected a great many thanks to our _friend_ here –" and he shot an appreciative glance in Remy's direction, "yet, unfortunately, I lost the _one prize_ that I had set my sights on for so long."

"Rachel Summers," Rogue cut in on gritted teeth, and he nodded.

"Rachel Summers. The pinnacle of evolution. In her genes I would find the finest expression of _homo superior_ possible. She was to be the gem in my collection." There was a light in his cold, red eyes, burning with a maniacal brightness that dimmed suddenly as he looked on her with a sneer of disdain. "Due to unforeseen circumstances, she slipped through my grasp. No thanks, in small part, to the two of _you_." The look he passed Remy was like an icy flame; he was used to it, let it pass over him; Sinister continued coldly: "It seems I miscalculated. It seems I did not factor in the _effect_ you would have on one another."

"How could you?" she tossed at him, and Remy felt a swell of pride to hear stick up for _them_. "What the hell would _you_ know about—"

"What? _Love?"_ He said the word with scientific curiosity, nothing more, nothing less. "I know something of it. The pull it has. Delicious and fleeting temptation. It is transitory. A hindrance, an inconvenience, to great work. I abandoned it long ago." He stroked his chin as if lost in some inner reminiscence before continuing: "But yes. You were – _are_ – still young. It takes time – years, decades – to overcome the limitations and inclinations of the flesh."

"Flesh has nothin' t' do with it," she told him; and Remy realised, on an imperceptible intake of breath, that deep down, despite it all… she still trusted him. She still _loved_ him. Essex, however, was oblivious to the implication of her words.

"I think you know it does," he sneered.

She said nothing, made no response to his gibe, confident enough that she was in the right and Essex was in the wrong. And Remy admired her for that. He admired her for believing what she said was true when he'd never had the guts to the same. When she turned her glance back on him, green eyes now calm and unafraid, again he felt that swell of pride and love for her.

"Let me go, Remy," she ordered him quietly. "Ah ain't gonna run."

He believed her. He didn't spare a moment to think how it would look to Essex. He released the charge on her, let go of her utility belt. When he looked across at Sinister, he saw that his boss (he still refused to call or think of him as his father) was gazing at the both of them with undisguised interest, that he should let her go, and that she should refuse the attempt to make an escape. She saw the look too.

"It's called trust, Essex," she told him with such matter-of-fact simplicity that he raised an eyebrow.

"You still trust him? Despite the fact that he has handed you over to me?" He stroked his chin again, grinning. "Interesting."

"Not really," she replied disinterestedly.

The conversation was momentarily interrupted by the room rumbling under the footsteps of the Sentinels and whatever fight was going on up above. More plaster crashed to the floor about them and Remy shifted nervously. If they stayed here much longer they'd be toast and Rogue would probably die hating him. His gaze darted towards Sinister, who looked completely unconcerned.

"Why do you need me?" he heard Rogue say, and he knew instinctively that she was buying herself some time while she figured out her next move. "Ah ain't no Rachel…"

He didn't know whether to applaud her or remonstrate with her at that.

 _Don't bother, chere. We gotta get outta here and you're just stallin' de inevitable…_

"No," Essex was replying. "Not by any means. But you're an X-Men. And you are… shall we say – _special_."

The room rocked again slightly; neither of them noticed, and Remy could feel the anxiety building in him despite himself.

 _C'mon, chere, don't draw dis out…_

He was almost surprised when he heard her say his name.

"And Remy?" she asked of Essex like she couldn't help it. "What about him?"

Essex's eyes narrowed; Remy held his breath.

 _Don't ask dat question, chere._

And he prayed that Essex wouldn't answer it.

"Yes," Sinister replied after a short moment, his tone soft and sibilant. "He is special too. Very special indeed."

"In what way?" she asked, and he knew, he _knew_ that she was biding her time, waiting to make her move, and he suppressed it, the urge to reach out an arm and hold her back, draw her away from making this mistake and putting herself in danger… But he knew he couldn't do that without putting _himself_ on the line too…

Essex's lips curled with disdain.

"What does it matter to you?"

And there it was again, a faraway rumble, dust filtering to the floor from more pockets that had opened up in the ceiling right overhead…

"Does he know why he's special? Is that why he's still workin' for you?"

He couldn't bear it then – he knew he had to warn her, that playing Essex like this was _dangerous_ … and he took a step forward, said; "Rogue…"

And _BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!_

A slat of plaster right above them worked loose and the next moment, before he could even get an arm out to stop her she had sprung forward, bowling right into Sinister and he thought _shit_ , knowing, as she didn't, that Essex was about ten times stronger than he _looked_ …

And there was a long moment of confusion, a moment where she realised that she'd miscalculated, where what was left of the roof came crashing to the ground, where he saw her reach out as if in slow motion, bare hand against Essex's white dead face, and Remy stifled a cry, thinking, _no, chere, don't do it, don't absorb_ him…

And the dust cloud lifted and the dust cloud sank; and when it had all cleared he saw Rogue lying on the floor at Essex's feet, pale and white and still as the dead.

 _-_ oOo-

Continued in chapter 8 of _Arrow of Time_.


End file.
